


Tanner's Written Rowvember 2019 Prompts

by DrTanner



Category: Saints Row
Genre: AU 20/80, M/M, Rowvember, Rowvember 2019, stupid gay idiot genuinely believes he's straight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21662485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrTanner/pseuds/DrTanner
Summary: In the final week of Inktober 2019, I had the supremely ill-advised idea to go straight off the back of drawing shit every day for a whole month into drawing and writing shit every day for ANOTHER whole month. I called this misguided burnout guarantee "Rowvember", a community event for creating fanworks around Saints Row, and I encouraged other people to join me in it.Here are my written pieces from the very first Rowvember. Enjoy. ( b ._.)b
Relationships: Male Boss (Saints Row)/Johnny Gat
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	1. DAY 3: “LIVELY”

**Author's Note:**

> A big part of this is an AU I've been calling "20/80" (or "AU 20/80" in the tags), in which rather than refusing Maero's offer of a 20/80 stake in the Brotherhood's upcoming business venture as the Boss does in SR2 canon, Charlie actually takes him up on it, for the express purpose of keeping Maero and his gang off his back while he tries to get the Saints up and running again. 
> 
> This scheme does not go to plan for anybody involved.

Someone’s about to have a god-awful time. 

He’s only a youngster, Carlos can’t help but notice, surely not much older than he is himself, but it’s not going to buy him any mercy in this forsaken place - he’s wearing Samedi colours. Gat caught him in the street outside, wandering too close to the hideout, perhaps not knowing that the Saints have moved back into town, and now he’s here, struggling vainly as Gat restrains him, his arms twisted painfully behind his back. 

“Haha! He’s a lively one, isn’t he!”

As he strolls over to take a look at their new captive, Charlie only seems amused by the sight of the young man’s unfettered panic. They all know that he’s fighting for his life; unless he breaks free and escapes, he’s not leaving this place alive. The question, from the instant Gat spotted him, was never whether or not he was going to die, only how, and now Charlie, all the more tickled now that his guest is openly begging to be let go, is weighing up the options at hand. 

“So!” Gat, too, sounds far too cheerful about it. “You got any questions for this asshole, Boss?” 

“Nah. Fuck that.” 

Really? They’re not even going to interrogate him? Carlos knows better than to say anything about it, but the decision surprises him. The Boss has told him more than once that he has a lot to learn, and he supposes that this must be one of those things for which his inexperience has left him short. 

He looks on anxiously as the Boss - that is, Charlie - turns to address his three new lieutenants. 

“Right, then.” He looks calmly between Pierce, Shaundi and Carlos. “Who will kill this man for me?” 

Oh. Oh, no. It’s a test. Is this a test? It has to be a test, and Carlos, eager to prove himself, wants to speak up, but Pierce beats him to the punch. He’s eager to prove himself too, and as awkward and sensitive as he can be sometimes, Pierce _is_ big. Carlos keeps his head down. 

“I’ll do it!” He’s is already pulling out a handgun as he steps forward. “I’ll kill him for you, Boss! Watch me pop a cap in this bitch’s ass.” 

“No.” Charlie moves to meet him, grabbing the weapon and sternly pulling it from Pierce’s grasp. “No guns.” 

Before Pierce can ask, Charlie produces a mean-looking combat knife from somewhere on his own person and offers it, handle-first. 

“Anyone can pull a trigger. I wanna know if you’ve got the balls to kill a man face to face.” 

Suddenly, Pierce seems a lot less enthusiastic, his confident expression evaporating in an instant as he takes a step back, appearing at an uncharacteristic loss for words. He casts a fearful glance over his shoulder at Shaundi, who stares back at him with eyes just as wide and frightened as his own. 

“D, don’t look at me,” she stammers, raising her hands as she tries - and fails - to sound unflustered. “I don’t even know _how_ to stab someone.”

At the sound of Charlie’s quiet but tangibly impatient sigh, Carlos feels his blood run cold, feels the colour drain from his face, and sure enough, a moment later, Charlie looks him dead in the eye, and gives an expectant cock of his head, eyebrows raised. He tries to speak but the words jumble up in his head and stick in his throat, and all he can do is open and close his mouth a few times before Charlie, somewhat mercifully, lets him off without further mention. 

“Am I to understand, then,” Charlie says, loudly, making himself heard over the now frantic pleading cries of their Samedi interloper, “That no one has the courage to kill this man for me?” 

Neither Pierce nor Shaundi have a response for that, and Carlos, at least, feels a little less useless. He’s not alone in being too shaken up and nervous to answer the Boss. It’s not that he’s weaker or less capable; it really is _just that bad._ Nearly anyone - save perhaps for Johnny Gat, who is still placidly keeping their prisoner held fast like it’s just another day at the proverbial office - would have a hard time speaking up in the middle of this. 

“Come now!” Charlie raises his voice, calling to his lieutenants with all the encouraging bluster of a circus ringleader. “If someone will kill this man for me, I’ll even take us all out for pizza! How’s that?” 

It doesn’t help. Up until now, Charlie has been nothing but perfectly friendly and level-headed, at least in Carlos’ experience, almost _cuddly,_ even, for how patient and gentle he’s been whenever he’s made mistakes or been shown up by his lack of knowledge. It is chilling, then, to discover that Charlie quantitates the value of a human life as approximately equal to the cost of a large pepperoni with cheese. 

But then, it’s not the life of a fellow Saint that he’s measuring against, is it.

No one breathes a word. 

“Alright, then.” Their silence has spoken for them, it would appear. “It seems I shall have to show you all how it’s done,” Charlie remarks, with a brand of disappointment in his voice that is far too casual. “Watch me now, and perhaps you’ll learn for next time.” 

Because of course there’s going to be a next time. Of course there is. 

“Here, now.” He grabs a fistful of the poor fucker’s hair and yanks it back to lift his chin, pricking at the soft skin of his throat with the tip of the blade. “The best way to kill a man quickly is to cut his throat. You could always try to go for the heart,” he goes on conversationally, gesturing vaguely at his captive’s torso, “But that’s tough to do in one shot, ‘specially if they’re strugglin’. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, of course - up here, under the sternum - but all you’ve gotta do is grab the bastard’s head, and look, there’s his throat. He can fight all he wants, but as long as I’ve got control of his head, he can’t do nothin’ about it.” 

And he _is_ fighting, but between Gat and the Boss, it’s thoroughly fruitless, and he begins to openly sob as he realises how perfectly he’s proving Charlie’s point for him. 

Charlie and Gat remain unmoved. 

Carlos, on the other hand, can feel his guts twisting into knots in the pit of his belly, but at the same time, he can’t look away. There’s something hideously, sickeningly compelling about it all, not least because it’s so genuinely educational. Charlie is pointing out - again, with the knife - all of the important points to hit, the jugular vein, across the front over the windpipe and over to the carotid artery on the other side, and Carlos is certain beyond a doubt that he is never going to forget any of it for as long as he lives, although perhaps for all of the wrong reasons. 

“Can you hurry this up, Boss?” Gat asks the question with good-natured and mannerly ease. “My arms are gettin’ tired.” 

“Oh.” Charlie responds to him with equal leisure, as if he’s just been rambling for a little too long. “Of course, mate. Right you are.” 

And without another word, he draws the blade of the knife across the still-begging Samedi’s gulping, gasping throat and in an instant sends a gushing wave of hot, bright red cascading onto the dirty floor tiles with a far too audible splatter, prompting Gat to somewhat hurriedly release him and shove him unceremoniously to the ground before it can stain his shirt. Just like that, a kicking, screaming, _living_ human being has turned into a writhing, bleeding trainwreck, and from there into a crumpled heap of slowly-cooling flesh a little less than a minute later. 

It’s the longest less-than-a-minute that Carlos has ever had to live through. 

“Now then.” As Gat dusts off his hands, Charlie’s bright and casual tone returns with full vigor. “Who will leave this man on the Samedi’s doorstep for me?” 


	2. DAY 4: “PLAUSIBLE”

“Look, mate. You do what you wanna do and I’ll do what I wanna do, alright? We all have our ways of doing things, don’t we.” 

“You’re fucking  _ busking, _ Charlie.” 

“And what of it?” 

Maero frowns, doubly frustrated by Charlie’s laidback disposition for how utterly fucking opaque and incomprehensible it is. The son of a bitch is sitting here, in the middle of the street, in the middle of  _ Maero’s _ street, with a battered acoustic guitar in his arms and its open case on the sidewalk at his feet, already with a smattering of assorted pocket change inside. It’s the kind of shit that common beggars do, and it’s beyond baffling. 

“... Isn’t this below you?” 

“It would be,” Charlie easily replies, readjusting the guitar in his lap, “If it were just about the money.” 

“Enlighten me, then.” Still frowning, Maero folds his arms and gives an incredulous cock of his head. “What  _ is _ it about?” 

“Well, it’s PR, innit.” 

“You  _ need _ that?”

“Look, it’s like I said, you do your business your way, intimidatin’ people so they’re too scared of you to cause you any bother, but me, I like it when the civvies like me. I’m a friendly fellow, personable.” 

“You mean you’re  _ plausible _ .”

“Fuck you. But yes.” 

“And that works for you, does it?” 

“Worked well enough back in London,” says Charlie, looking up at Maero with a roguish grin and a twinkle in his eye. “No jury ever convicted me of anything.” 

“Hm.” It’s almost as much a snort as it is a chuckle, but Maero can feel the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth all the same. “Alright, then. If you’re  _ that  _ good, colour me curious.” 

Charlie gives a relaxed shrug. 

“I can do a bit if you want,” he says. “But you’ll have to shuffle off ‘round the corner, else you’re gonna scare the punters.” 

As skeptical as Maero is, he was telling the truth when he said he was curious, and it’s curiosity enough to do as Charlie asks. He’s an interesting guy, Maero will give him that much, although how he can be so confident in this little PR scheme of his is beyond him. He’s not particularly good looking, as far as Maero can tell - his face is too hard to imagine him starring in any glamorous photoshoots, his eyes too light a brown to be mysterious or captivating, his hair too scruffy and dirty-blonde to impress anyone - and his accent is  _ horrible, _ and yet, he  _ is  _ strangely charming, at least when he means to be. 

He really is a plausible guy, Maero thinks, opening the door and climbing into the driver’s seat of his truck. He’s very,  _ very  _ plausible, and absolutely not to be trusted. 

“What’d he say?” Matt, sat in the passenger’s side, watches him sit down. 

“It’s PR,” Maero replies, winding down the window and leaning out to peer down the street at Charlie. “He figures he can get the civilians to like him enough that they won’t snitch on him.” 

“... I guess I can see it,” says Matt, looking around Maero’s considerable bulk to likewise get a look at their peculiar new business partner. “I mean, it’s not much different to what I do, right?” 

Maero doesn’t turn to face him. 

“The Feed Dogs are a little more upmarket than busking in the street with a shitty old acoustic, Mattie.” 

“It’s all music at the end of the day, man.” He shrugs. “People love it. And if it’s good enough, they’ll love you for making it. Doesn’t matter if you’re playing to a sold-out stadium or a few strangers passing by in the street.”

Now Maero  _ does _ turn to him, if only to give him a quizzically astonished stare.

“... What?” 

“That’s very poetic, Mattie. You been savin’ that one for long?” 

“Come on, man.” Matt’s brow creases, just a little. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? Maybe he’s not so different to us, y’know?” 

“Are you serious? Look at him.” 

“Well  _ yeah, _ of course he’s different  _ superficially, _ I mean… he’s English. Of course he’s gonna seem weird.” 

“I don’t think it’s the Englishness that makes him weird, Mattie. Oh?” Some distant movement in Maero’s peripheral vision catches his attention, and he’s back to watching out of the driver’s side window. “He’s stood up.” 

“Are we on?” 

“Looks like it. I guess we’re gonna find out how good this PR shit is.” 

Sure enough, Charlie shortly begins to play. It’s a simple tune, little more than a few chords, but he plays it well, and immediately, people in the street are turning to look at him. It’s only when he starts to sing, though, that they fully stop what they’re doing and really watch him. 

_ “You talk like Marlene Dietrich, _ _  
_ _ And you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire; _ _  
_ _ Your clothes are all made by Balmain, _ _  
_ _ And there's diamonds and pearls in your hair, yes there are! _

_ You live in a fancy apartment _ _  
_ _ Off the Boulevard St. Michel, _ _  
_ _ Where you keep your Rolling Stones records, _ _  
_ _ And a friend of Sacha Distel, yes you do! _

_ But where do you go to, my lovely, _ _  
_ _ When you're alone in your bed? _ __  
_ Tell me the thoughts that surround you, _ _  
_ ___I want to look inside your head, yes I do!”_

He sounds a little out of practice, not perfect, but he’s still quite good, if only for how much he seems to be enjoying himself. It comes through in his voice, and it doesn’t take him long to draw a crowd as he stands there, swaying gently to his own playing and singing. 

“Oh, hey! It’s that British guy again!” 

Someone comes around the corner saying it, and they’re so excited to cross the street and join Charlie’s small but growing audience that they don’t even seem to notice Maero and his enormous truck sitting there at the side of the road, not even ten feet away. 

Maybe there is something to this little thing he’s got going after all. 

Some time later, when Charlie decides he’s had enough for one day - and once he’s done shaking folks’ hands and thanking them for coming and listening to him while he packs up - he makes his way over to Maero’s truck, and merrily hands him a hefty bag of coins and worn banknotes. There must be a couple of hundred bucks at least; not bad for a couple of hours’ easy work. 

“Eighty percent, isn’t it?” Charlie grins at him. “I play an alright fiddle as well, y’know.” 


	3. DAY 5: “EXCHANGE”

It’s a little after 7pm on a warm summer evening when Maero’s phone rings, and he’s less than surprised to see that it’s Charlie calling. Despite telling him repeatedly to  _ just text,  _ for fucks sake,  _ just text _ if he wants something, Charlie still prefers to call, and Maero has given up trying to correct him. It doesn’t matter that much; if anything it only means that business gets done and dealt with then and there, and Maero supposes that he can live with it.

“What do you want, Charlie?”

“Alright mate? Listen.” The terse greeting does similarly little to perturb Charlie from his course. “We’ve finally got the place lookin’ somewhat presentable, so I thought we’d throw a little housewarming party. Perhaps you and yours might like to pop round, hm?” 

“You’re inviting me to a party.” 

“That I am, mate. I’ve been to your house, I thought you might like to come to mine. Bring your friends, the more the merrier.”

Maero has heard tales aplenty about Charlie, none of them good, and although it’s been a few months now and he’s still been nothing but perfectly friendly and obliging - at least when it matters, Charlie’s irritating preference for calling over texting notwithstanding - Maero is keenly aware that he’d be supremely foolish to trust him even half as far as he could throw him. 

“... Is this a trap?” 

As if he’d just  _ tell him _ if it was.

“Mate,  _ please. _ ” Charlie openly scoffs, makes it sound like the most laughably ridiculous idea. “Did I not just say to bring your friends? As many as you want, mate. But, uh, no weapons, though. You and I both know there’s some rough sorts in amongst both of our little tribes, and rather than trying to prevent the inevitable, I find it’s better to just make the brawl as non-lethal as possible when it does happen.”

It seems so  _ reasonable _ when he says it, and Maero catches himself almost being taken in by him for it.

After what feels like a long pause, he sighs, and rubs his face with his free hand. 

“Why are you doing this, Charlie? What do you want from me?” 

“What do you mean? The party? Or, like, in general?” 

“The party, Charlie. Why are you inviting me to your fucking house party?” 

“Think of it as a little… cultural exchange between your lot and mine.” 

Coming from anybody else, calling something a ‘cultural exchange’ would absolutely be a euphemism for a bloodbath, and sure enough, Maero can’t help but feel uneasy about it, but at the same time, Charlie’s never  _ done  _ anything to him. Is it really so outlandish to think that he might be telling the truth, and that he might actually, really just want to invite Maero and his buddies over to his newly-renovated hideout for some drinks and a few laughs? They’re supposed to be partners, after all. They  _ are _ partners, in fact. They’ve been working together to great success for months.

“That,” Charlie adds, with no hint of insincerity that Maero can detect, “And I do like you, y’know. You’re a decent bloke. Your girlfriend made a joke at my boy’s expense and you didn’t laugh with her. ‘S more than a lot of people would’ve done. I appreciate it.”

“Oh, that?” It seemed like such a small thing at the time. Maero is surprised he remembers. “It’s nothing, man. Jess was out of line sayin’ that, I wasn’t gonna…” He shrugs, despite knowing that Charlie can’t see him. “It’s nothing. Don’t mention it.” 

“I mean it.” Charlie presses him. “I don’t soon forget these things, mate. People can make all the grand gestures in the world, but they don’t mean shit compared to little things like that. You’re a good bloke. I like you. And Carlos likes you.”

There’s warmth in his voice as he mentions Carlos, subtle but tangible, and very real. Apparently this counts for a lot in Charlie’s book. Maybe he really  _ is  _ telling the truth.

Or, it could all be an elaborate and admittedly very convincing confidence trick, wherein Charlie hopes to gain Maero’s trust, even if it takes many,  _ many  _ months, before eventually stabbing him in the back when the ideal opportunity arises. Jess certainly doesn’t like him, but Maero suspects that that’s more a bit of a kickback from the aforementioned incident with her cracking a shitty and thoroughly racist joke right to Carlos’ face and showing herself up. Because that was  _ Charlie’s  _ fault, obviously.

“Oh, and it’s fancy dress, by the way.” 

“Wait, what!?” The sudden addendum to the Official Terms of the house party knocks Maero’s train of thought rudely off of its proverbial rails. “Fucking  _ fancy dress!? _ Do you seriously expect me to -” 

“- Now look, look. Hear me out, mate. Hear me out.” He expected this reaction, it seems. “Film noir, alright? Old timey gangsters and that, y’know? 20s ‘n’ 30s shit.”

Well. That  _ does _ change things.

“... You mean like… pinstripe and tommy guns? Shit like that?” 

“Yeah!” Charlie exclaims. “Exactly! C’mon, you’d look  _ fantastic _ in a properly tailored suit, you really would. I’ll put you in touch with a guy I know, he’ll sort you and your mates out.” 

Oh. Oh, no. Charlie’s selling it to him. He’s selling it  _ really well _ and it’s  _ working. _ He  _ would _ look fantastic in a properly tailored suit. 

“C’mon, mate. You’d look  _ so  _ good. For me, please. A fellow of your stature, you’d look  _ incredible. _ ” 

“Jesus, brother.” Maero’s gaze drifts towards the ceiling as he weighs his options, searching his mind for… whatever the fuck he’s supposed to say to that. “... Jess won’t wanna come. You know that, right? You’re gonna have to sell this thing to her, too.” 

“Oh, mate.” He chuckles. “I won’t have to sell  _ shit. _ I’m sure she’ll be delighted to come along if it means you buy her a nice string of pearls and some  _ period-accurate jewelry  _ for her outfit.” 

“Hey, come on. She’s better than that. I know you two don’t get along that well yet but Jess is decent too, y’know? You guys just got off on the wrong foot is all.” 

“I’m sorry, that was uncharitable of me.” He’s still got a trace of a laugh in his voice, but the apology comes freely and easily regardless. “Surely you can tempt her though, can’t you?  _ Surely. _ It’d be a shame if you couldn’t come because something like that.”

“... Fine. Fine, you got me. When is this fuckin’ house party, then?” 

“Sunday, mate. Turn up whenever you want, it’ll be good to see you.” 

“Sunday? Not Friday or Saturday?” 

“Oh, mate. You know we live under the old Mission House now. Gotta go to church on Sunday, eh? That and most of the civvies’ll be out of the way if we spill out into the street. I don’t want people gettin’ hurt unnecessarily, you know how it is.” 

“Haha, alright, I get it. I’ll see you there, then. You gonna text me your guy’s contacts?” 

“Oh! Yeah, mate, of course. You’re gonna look so fuckin’ good, Maero. I can’t wait.” 

“This had better not be a fuckin’ trap, Charlie.” It helps to crack a joke about it, to laugh while he says it. “I’m gonna be disappointed if you’ve got me excited about this just to stab me in the fuckin’ back.” 

“Mate, I wouldn’t  _ dream  _ of such a thing. Let me know how many’s coming and so I can get the drinks in, alright? If I’ve got the cash left over on the night I’ll get us some takeaway ordered in as well, whatever you like.”

“Oh, shit, you’re gonna feed us as well? You’re one hell of a host, aren’t you.” 

“Mate, I’m English. I am a good host above all else when people are in my home, alright? I’ll see you and yours on Sunday.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, you will. Have a good night, man.” 

“You too, mate. Take care.” 

_ Take care,  _ Maero thinks, ending the call.  _ What a quaint little Britishism. _

_ What the fuck did I just agree to? _


	4. DAY 6: “SUPERB”

“Come on now, steady hand. Try again, you’ll get it.” 

“Here, little man, lemme show you how t-” 

“- Let the boy do it himself, Pierce.”

The interjection is sharp and stern, and although there’s no anger or malice behind it - Charlie is merely delivering a  _ firm reminder, _ it’s not a real telling off - it’s enough to convince Pierce to back off and keep his hands to himself without another word, and Charlie turns to him for long enough to give him a nod of approval before returning his attention to the matter at hand, namely Carlos, wrestling with a length of metal wire wedged into the gap in a car’s side window between the glass and the frame, his brow knotted with determined, frustrated focus.

Carlos, meanwhile, is starting to feel very self-conscious about how long it’s taking him to find the bar inside the door that controls the lock and catch it with the hook on the end of his wire tool. Charlie did it in half a second when he showed him earlier, and Pierce wasn’t much slower when he, eager as ever to show off his skills in front of the Boss, gave it a shot afterwards; just how far behind his peers is he? Shaundi even showed him a different way to do the same trick, sticking the wire in through the top of the window and catching the hook around the lock post and pulling it up, but Carlos wants to learn to do it the way Charlie does, because it’s quicker.

Or it would be, if he could just get the hang of it. Obviously, the car Charlie’s brought home for him to practice on was a necessary investment.

“C’mon! You’re doing it!” Shaundi is nothing but endlessly encouraging, and, importantly, knows better than to try to interfere. “The handle moved!”

Did it? Did it move? Carlos wiggles the wire around again, and it feels like he might have found his mark inside the door, but it’s hard to tell without being able to see what he’s doing. At least with the lock post, even if it’s harder to get enough purchase on the thing to pull it up, you can see what you’re fucking doing, but with this, you just have to  _ know, _ and shit like that, much to Carlos’ annoyance, only comes with experience and familiarity.

He offers a silent prayer that he might actually have it this time before giving the wire a tug and hoping for the best. A moment later, there’s a muted but deeply satisfying click as the lock releases, the post pops up on the other side of the glass, and Carlos feels relief wash over him like a cooling tide. 

The reaction from his friends is immediate. 

“Waheeeey, good lad!” Charlie grins, giving him a hearty pat on the shoulder that turns into an enthusiastic grab and a shake. “Well done! Fucking superb, you’re coming along brilliantly, my boy. You’ll be an old hand at this in no time at all.” 

“See? You did it!” Shaundi, too, is quick to heap on the praise, drawing Carlos into a hug as Pierce whoops and cheers for him behind her. “Don’t worry,” she tells him. “It gets easier with practice.” 

It helps a lot to be surrounded by people who genuinely like him and like seeing him succeed. It’s no secret by now that Charlie’s grown especially fond of him (“Johnny!” He’s leaning out of the garage door to shout into the house. “Johnny! Get in here! Our boy broke into his first car!”), and in spite of Carlos’ fear that he’d soon run out of patience with him for having to teach him so much and correct him so often, it seems like spending the effort to do it has only endeared him to Charlie all the more. 

Johnny appears shortly, and although he’s far more reserved with his praise, it’s no less sincere for it, and Carlos knows exactly how much it means when Johnny ruffles his hat and tells him he did good. 

“Maybe the Boss really did see somethin’ in you after all,” he quips. “Tell me when you can get that shit open in five seconds or less.” 

Charlie’s just beaming with pride, though, and Carlos gets the distinct impression that he’s never had someone to teach before. It doesn’t help that Maero’s girlfriend called him and Johnny “Mom and Dad” that one time when she thought she was far enough away from Maero’s phone that nobody would hear her; it was supposed to be derisive, but not only did Charlie hear it and think it was hilarious, but he’d had the call on speakerphone at the time.  _ Everybody _ heard it.  _ Everybody _ thought it was hilarious. Charlie and Johnny started leaning into it as a joke initially, partly to wind Jessica up and partly to wind  _ Carlos _ up, but it’s long since become habit between them to say things like “Our boy just broke into his first car!” without even so much as a drop of irony.

Carlos is a Saint. He’s their boy.  _ Charlie’s _ boy.

But then, the other implication of calling Charlie and Gat “Mom and Dad”, the other thing that Jessica was trying to mock by saying it, is that maybe they’re married or something, which, really, Carlos  _ wishes _ he could say that they’d leaned into that as well, but they’ve always been kind of weird together, for as long as he’s known them. That’s the best word for it, they’re  _ weird _ together. Johnny has a girlfriend, for crying out loud. Unless it’s one of those Arrangements™ that people have sometimes, the kind of thing that leads one to set his relationship status to “It’s Complicated” on social media.

Last week Carlos caught them arguing about something, but then when they realised he was there, they immediately stopped and  _ pretended to agree in front of him. _ They’re so weird together, and giving them a trio of lieutenants to manage only seems to have made them weirder. 

That just leaves Shaundi and Pierce, whom he supposes would have to be Big Sister and Big Brother. They do bicker like siblings an awful lot, and when he thinks about it, Carlos supposes that Shaundi  _ does _ pretty much just go out and do whatever - and whoever - the fuck she wants, the very image of the Rebellious Oldest Sister, and Pierce is every bit as greedy for attention as any middle child Carlos has ever seen on TV.

Jesus, are they a family? 

Would it be so bad if they were? 

_ Does that make Maero their Cool Uncle? _

“Oi, Carlos.” 

“Yeah, Boss?” He’s quick to drop the whole internal conversation the instant he hears Charlie say his name. 

“C’mon, let’s try it again.” Charlie gestures towards the car door. “I wanna see you get it open faster this time. The whole point of doing it this way is that you can do it quick and be away before anyone sees you.” 

“Right. Okay, Boss.” 

It’s amazing what a little positive reinforcement can do for one’s confidence. This time, Carlos’ hands hardly shake at all while he’s trying to fiddle the wire into position, and he pops the lock open in half a minute. On the next attempt, it takes twenty seconds, then fifteen, then eight. Charlie laughs and applauds him every time, visibly delighted with every bit of improvement he makes. 

“We’re gonna have to fetch you more cars to practice on,” he remarks, with a bigger, warmer smile than Carlos thinks he’s ever seen on his face before. “You’re gettin’ awfully good at this. Didn’t I tell you I’d make you a banger, mate?” 

It’s true, he did say that. But then, Charlie always keeps his promises, doesn’t he. 

“Anyway. I think you’ve earned a dinner on me, my boy. Where d’you wanna go?” 

Carlos’ face lights up, but before he can answer, Pierce, ever hopeful, interrupts him. 

“We’re coming too, right, Boss?” 

“Jesus, could your eyes get any bigger?” Shaundi gives him a playful shove. “... But we  _ are _ coming too,” she adds, turning her smile on Charlie. “Right, Boss?”

“For fucks sake!” Charlie is quick to put them in their place, though. “Let the boy answer me! We will go,” he tells them, with audibly strained patience, “Where Carlos wants to go. Alright? C’mon, boy. What d’you want?” 

Carlos thinks about. Even though Charlie is unambiguously asking him to choose, it still feels like an overstep to be the one who decides where they go to eat. 

“... Can we go to Freckle Bitch’s?” he asks, eventually.

“I don’t know,” Charlie replies, pressing him to show a little more conviction. “Can we?” 

“C’mon, kid.” Johnny gives him a nudge. “Sound like you mean it.” 

Truthfully, Carlos senses that he could probably ask Charlie for just about anything and get it, whether Charlie was telling him to choose or not. He straightens up, just a little.

“... I wanna go to Freckle Bitch’s.” 

“There now,” says Johnny, only scarcely bothering to hide his amusement. “Was that so hard?”

“Come on then, my boy.” Charlie pats him on the back. “Let’s go, then.” 

“Yeah! Freckle Bitch’s!” Shaundi’s already halfway to the car - the one that  _ hasn’t  _ been repeatedly broken into in the name of education - and Pierce is quick to catch up with her, loathe to be even the slightest bit left out of anything. 

It’s not the same as having his brother back, Carlos reflects, as they all cram into Charlie’s car together, but that doesn’t mean that it’s  _ less good. _ It’s just different.

Different, and pretty fucking superb. 


	5. DAY 7: “DOCTOR”

Troy tries to ignore the warm, clammy sensation of a light sweat forming at the back of his neck. He’s done a lot of questionable shit and gotten away with all of it during his time as Chief of Police, but right at this moment, he can feel his knuckles whitening as he grips his desk phone and endeavours to sound casual.

“So.” He’s used to it by now, of course, but there’s never usually this much at stake. “... Interpol, you say.” 

“That’s correct.” The voice at the other end - she told Troy her name but in his panic, he’s already forgotten it - is friendly, but businesslike and authoritative. “Some folks over at Scotland Yard reached out to us because they’ve tracked one of their wanted individuals to Michigan, and they have reason to believe that you have him over there in Stilwater. We were hoping you could provide us with some information.” 

Dear god. This is serious. It’s  _ Interpol. _ It doesn’t get much more serious than fucking  _ Interpol. _

“Well, you know I’ll help however I can,” says Troy, as convincingly as he can manage. “What do you need to know?” 

“We sent over some documents ahead of this call,” the agent tells him. “You should have received them by now. Take a look over them and I’ll explain what we need.” 

At that moment, one of Troy’s officers enters the room, and, seeing that he’s on the phone, wordlessly hands him a manila folder before excusing himself again. Sure enough, when Troy opens the folder up, it’s full of files, photocopies of various documents, and photographs. 

And there, staring back at him from a mugshot, with cold, remorseless eyes, is Charlie, a little younger and a little scruffier and with long, unkempt hair tied back into a rough ponytail, but utterly unmistakable. Troy’s heart all but leaps into his throat.

“Yes, yes, I… I did receive those.” It’s getting harder and harder not to sound as worried as he is. “I’m looking at them right now.”

“Have you seen the mugshots?” 

“... Yes.” 

“Do you recognise him?”

He’s about to lie to Interpol, he realises. He’s made a lot of bad decisions and done a lot of stupid things, but this might just be the worst bad decision and the stupidest stupid thing of the lot. 

“I can’t say I do, ma’am, but I’ll have my officers look out for him. Who is he?” 

“He goes by ‘Charlie’ most of the time.” She doesn’t  _ sound _ suspicious, at least. “But he uses a lot of aliases that you should be on the lookout for; Charlie Rose, Charlie Thorn, Charles Rosethorn, Charles Blackwater -” 

“- Wait, Charlie Rose? Like that TV host?” 

“Perhaps you won’t see that particular alias as much, but he went by it frequently in London. In any case, you should be on the lookout for the others. There are more listed in your file. And, if he happens to provide you or anyone else with any identification or other official documents, be aware that they’re doctored fakes. They will  _ always  _ be doctored fakes. You’ll find some examples in your file.” 

“How can you be sure of that?” 

“Because officially, he doesn’t exist.” 

Troy has known Charlie for the better part of ten years now. Admittedly, Charlie was in a coma for five of them, but it’s a sizeable chunk of both of their lives regardless, and during those years leading up to the coma, Troy was fairly sure that he’d got the measure of him pretty decently. Now, though, it would appear that he’s only ever been  _ aware _ of Charlie, and that he’s never really known him at all. Fucking  _ Interpol, _ for christ’s sake. What did he  _ do? _

It’s probably in the file, now that Troy thinks about it. He should probably take a proper look at it at some point. 

“Usually,” explains the agent on the phone, with the clear, proficient tone of one who has explained this many times to many people, “When someone is arrested, you can ID them. There’s a papertrail. You can find out who they really are if you dig a little. But this guy, Charlie, he doesn’t even have a real birth certificate, let alone anything else. He was never registered anywhere. We don’t know who he is or where he came from. The Yard says that he just showed up amongst the gangs one day and that he’s been causing them problems ever since. ‘Charlie’ probably isn’t even his real name, if he  _ has _ a real name.” 

That’s such a weird thought. One tends to take it for granted that people just sort of… become known to the government when they’re born; it’s plainly obvious after even a moment’s consideration that they have to be registered somewhere, probably by their parents, but it’s so ubiquitous that it seems automatic. Charlie, evidently, managed to slip through a crack somewhere, and then spent the rest of his life slipping through cracks until he wound up here, in Stilwater, the ass-crack of the fucking world. 

“... So.” Troy thumbs uneasily through the papers in the Interpol file. “Will… will you guys be sending any agents over, or…?”

“Don’t worry. We’re not here to do your job for you. It’s not like it is in the movies; Interpol doesn’t arrest anyone. Mostly we’re just here to liaise between police forces in different nations and help them to help each other. But if you do manage to get our man,” she tells him, “My contact details are included in your file. You can get in touch with me, and we’ll make sure that Charlie goes home and receives an appropriate penalty for his crimes.”

“And…” Well. He can’t  _ not _ ask, can he. “... What crimes are those, exactly? I’d like to know what we’re dealing with,” he lies, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Just so we know what to expect.” 

The answer comes harder and faster than Troy anticipates, though.

“Nearly eighty confirmed murders, another thirty unconfirmed,  _ numerous _ counts of assault and GBH, fraud, money laundering and theft…” There’s a brief sound of papers being shuffled. “... The list really does go on. It’s probably easier to ask what he  _ isn’t _ wanted for. He’s a jack of all trades; if one thing ceases to be practical or lucrative, he’ll just move on to another. Your department will need to spread its net pretty wide.” 

“I’ll, uh.”  _ Jesus, _ Charlie. “I’ll make sure all of my officers are well informed.” 

It takes far too long to finish the call, but Troy is terrified of appearing as though he’s being cagey with his new contact or trying to get rid of her, and there’s little he can do but sit there and pretend to be cooperative. Once it’s finally over, though, his mind races. He couldn’t prevent Gat from being arrested, but he did what he could to help him once it had happened, and can’t pretend that he wasn’t relieved when Charlie broke out of jail and rescued him from death row. 

(Charlie would most certainly be eligible for death row himself if he didn’t have people waiting to receive him back in merry old England. Do they even have death row over there anymore? Troy isn’t sure.)

Gat is a fucking serial killer, with something like three hundred murders to his name, and yet Troy  _ still _ tried to help him. Now he’s doing the same again for Charlie, someone a hell of a lot less likeable and with a hell of a lot more trouble following behind him, and he can only pray that he isn’t going to come to regret it. 

Maybe he ought to let Charlie know that Interpol is looking for him, if he doesn’t know already, or, more specifically, that they’re on the cusp of  _ finding _ him. From what he does know of Charlie, though, Troy doubts that he’ll care. Charlie has, historically, always treated his tangles with the police like it’s all some great game, which he always wins, albeit very narrowly at times. Does he realise how serious this is? Troy feels like he should tell him about this just so that he can give the son of a bitch a piece of his mind. 

_ I just lied to a fucking Interpol agent for you, you asshole. I hope you’re grateful. _

But, by the same token, it  _ is  _ good to see the Saints back in town, in some weird way, and it’s largely because of Charlie. Charlie is keeping Troy’s remaining friends safe where he himself couldn’t, which has to be worth  _ something. _

Maybe even worth lying to a fucking Interpol agent. 


	6. DAY 8: “ATTENTION”

“You okay, Gat?” 

“What makes you think I’m not?” 

If she were telling the truth, Shaundi would mention something about how the first thing Gat has done with the HQ’s newly-installed bar is chase everyone else away from it so that he can sit there and sulk and nurse his beer by his lonesome, but she’s wiser than that, and instead, she simply gives him a smile and a shrug.

“I dunno,” she says easily, as she takes up a stool next to him. “Just a funny feeling.”

Gat cuts her a thoroughly irritated sideways glance that suggests he doesn’t believe her for a second, but he soon goes back to glaring at the bottle in his hand, and shifts his weight where he sits to hunch over it just a little harder. When he doesn’t seem to have anything to say on the matter, Shaundi presses him, albeit gently. 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“No.” He doesn’t even look at her as he sharply replies.

People tend to either love Johnny Gat or hate his guts. There’s seldom any in-between, which makes sense, really. Gat is an extreme person. There aren’t many in-betweens with him, either. Shaundi has to admit that she was likewise taken in by his reputation and notoriety - his celebrity, one could even call it - but now she’s come to know him as a person, more than just a concept or a persona, she’s grown to like him a lot. He’s quick-witted and funny, refreshingly direct, gets things done and cares a hell of a lot about the people around him. Gat’s a great guy, and Shaundi is happy and privileged to be able to count him amongst her friends.

But, not unlike a grenade, he does have to be handled with respect, and it’s only after making a brief assessment of risk that Shaundi decides to press a little harder.

“... You don’t like Maero, do you.” 

“Well  _ shit, _ ” Johnny snaps, scowling at her, “What the fuck gave you that impression?” 

“Why don’t you like him?” asks Shaundi, undiscouraged. “I haven’t seen a whole lot of him, but he seems like an okay guy from what I’ve heard.” 

“Because he ain’t a Saint!” answers Gat, angrily. “We don’t make deals with the likes of him!” 

“It’s not like it’s gonna be forever, though, right? The Boss said it’s just to keep him off our backs until we can afford to bump him off.” 

“It’s bullshit. We gotta get our shit together fast so I can blow that fucker’s head off.” 

“You can’t tolerate him even for a little while?”

“Hell no.” 

However, even as direct and hands on as Gat likes to be, he’s no fool. It does seem odd that he’d be so dead set against this arrangement when it’s turning out to be so useful and practical. In fact, he only seems to have grown to hate it all the more with every success it affords the gang; the more useful and practical the alliance between the Saints and the Brotherhood proves to be, the more aggravated Gat becomes by it. It’s unlike him to rail so hard against something that helps the gang he’s been running with for much of his adult life. 

“Y’know...” Shaundi weighs up another risky choice. “... Some people might get the impression that you’re mad because Maero is getting so much of the Boss’s attention.” 

Gat, visibly bristling, narrows his eyes at her. 

“Oh?”

“A little bird told me,” she softly goes on, resting her elbows on the bar, “That before the Boss got blown up on that boat, you, Aisha and him used to be  _ really close, _ like three little Musketeers. You and Aisha were the only people the Boss liked, and nobody could put a wedge between you.”

“What’s your point?” 

“Well, it seems to me,” she says, tilting her head as she offers Gat a sympathetic look, “That  _ maybe, _ you were kinda hoping that it was gonna be like that again. But now Maero’s getting in the way, isn’t he.” 

“You can say that again,” grumbles Gat. Still scowling, he takes a hefty swig of his beer, and swallows hard. “We should’a shot his ass already,” he breathes. “This is bullshit.” 

“D’you miss him?” 

“Who?” 

“The Boss. D’you miss him?” 

Gat furrows his brow at her. 

“He ain’t dead, Shaundi.” 

“You know what I mean,” says Shaundi, nudging him. “He’s not around as much as you want him to be. You don’t get to spend as much time with him as you used to.”

At that, she sees Gat’s expression soften as he goes back to staring at the bar, but only slightly. It’s less of a scowl now and more of a rigid, tight-lipped pout. 

He huffs quietly, and Shaundi, leaning in, lightly places a hand on his arm.

“It’s okay to feel like that, y’know.” 

“I don’t need your permission,” Gat mutters, and Shaundi feels him tense up under her touch. “I’ll feel however I fuckin’ want.” 

“I know.” Knowing better than to push her luck too far, she takes her hand back. “He’s only doing all this to keep us all safe, though. He wants to make your life easier. He’s doing it ‘cause he loves you.”

“Y’think?” 

“Sure, I mean, anyone can see the Boss loves the shit out of you, he’s always more fun to be around when you’re there, too. And I guess you wouldn’t be so torn up about it if you didn’t love him back.” The barest smidgen of a cheeky grin crosses Shaundi’s features. “Right, ‘Dad’?”

That, finally, does almost get a laugh out of him. He snorts. 

“You gotta quit it with that shit,” he snickers, raising an eyebrow. “Eesh is gonna be mad if she finds out me ‘n’ the Boss got married and had a kid behind her back.”

“Hey, there’s nothing stopping her from marrying you too and getting a little threeway going on.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

It’s good to see him perk up a bit. It’s all Shaundi wanted, really. 

“Y’know,” she says, making the most of her advantage while she has it, “You should probably tell him you’ve been missing him. Instead of, like, yelling at him and telling him he’s a stupid asshole.” 

“Oh. You, uh. You heard that?” 

“Oh yeah.” 

“And you didn’t say anything?” 

“Hey, I’m not about to get involved when Mom and Dad are fighting. But I mean it, though. You should tell him. I bet he’s disappointed that you guys don’t get much time together anymore, too.” 

“... I’ll think about it.” 

This time, when Shaundi reaches around Gat’s shoulders and hugs him, he doesn’t complain or tense up, and although he doesn’t hug her back or even lean into it at all, he does smile a little. 

It’s better than nothing. 


	7. DAY 9: “PASSENGER”

Climbing into the back of Charlie’s car to accept the offered ride home out of the rain has been…  _ an experience, _ so far, but Maero can’t be sure that he’d say he’s regretting it. It’s something  _ like _ regret that he’s feeling right now, crammed awkwardly into the back seat because Carlos is riding shotgun and Charlie won’t have him moved from his position of privileged favour for love nor money, but he’s not entirely certain that he doesn’t want to be there at all. It’s not  _ bad _ to be there, per se, it’s just  _ intensely odd. _

Charlie is an odd character in the first place, but now that Carlos is starting to learn that Charlie really does like him and gaining a little confidence because of it, some of that oddness is perhaps starting to rub off on him, too, leading to the “game” that seems to be being played in the front of the car. Maero is a participant in this game as well, of course, but only because it wouldn’t be nearly so effective - nearly so  _ fun _ \- if there wasn’t an audience for it. 

Maero looks on with far greater interest than he would ideally like to have as Carlos turns to Charlie while he drives, already struggling not to grin before he even says anything, and prepares to test him again.

“Hey, Boss?” 

Charlie doesn’t look away from the road or take his hands off the wheel even for a moment as he replies. 

“Yes, my boy?” 

There’s another pause as Carlos tries to steady himself and straighten his face before he speaks again, and immediately Maero has to wonder what the fuck he’s going to come out with this time. 

“... Where do babies come from, Boss?” 

“You’ll understand in time, my boy.” Charlie doesn’t crack in the slightest, unflinchingly deadpan as he answers him. “All in good time.” 

“You always say that,” whines Carlos, with convincing disappointment, slumping theatrically back into his seat. “I wanna know  _ now." _

“Patience, my boy.” It still fails to get a reaction out of Charlie. “Patience. It’s a virtue, you know. Alongside prudence and charity.” 

He’s trying so hard to get Charlie to break down and laugh in front of Maero, because that’s the game, you see; Carlos is trying with all of his might to fracture Charlie’s ironlike composure, which is made all the more a high-stakes proposition with Maero in the car, and Charlie is trying to beat him at his own game by reacting to all of his attempts with absolute, uncompromising sincerity. 

It would be evident to anyone that Carlos is never going to win this game, if only because Charlie is all too ready and willing to let other people think he’s weird, and it is precisely no skin off of his nose whatsoever if Carlos wants to implicate himself in that weirdness by deliberately trying to embarrass him. They’ve been in the car for fifteen minutes already and Charlie hasn’t even so much as smirked, despite Carlos’ best efforts. It just sounds like they’re having a real, perfectly normal conversation, except that the actual content of that conversation is  _ relentlessly fucking weird. _

“Patience isn’t a virtue.” Carlos is still the quiet, soft-spoken kid that he was when Maero first met him, but he holds his head up a little higher and smiles a lot more these days, which is good to see. “Temperance is a virtue. That’s different.” 

“Oh? Is that so?” 

“Yeah. That’s like… self-control ‘n’ stuff like that.” 

“Well, you could just as easily stand to learn a bit of that as well, couldn’t you, eh?” 

“Whatever, man. You’re not my dad.” 

“No, I’m your mother.” 

The poorly-stifled guffaw comes out of Carlos as a loud and thoroughly undignified snort, and straight away, he goes very quiet, quite unable to look at anyone for a while afterwards. Charlie wins this round, then. 

In a way, it’s kind of flattering; they wouldn’t fool around in front of Maero like this if they didn’t like him at least a little. And whilst it might be true that Maero wasn’t intending to become friends with Charlie or any of his fellow Saints when he first cooked up the idea to offer them an alliance, it does seem to be happening of its own accord, in spite of Maero’s best efforts to prevent it. They’re not such a bad bunch, and being here in the car with them, watching them rag on each other in…  _ almost _ the same way that Maero and his own friends do, well. It makes them seem very human, very friend-shaped.

In the relative silence following Carlos’ latest defeat, broken only by the sounds of the running car and the background noise offered by Ezzzy FM - a detail that frankly only adds another layer of incomprehensible but benign strangeness to the whole scenario - Maero weighs a choice in his mind. After a moment’s consideration, he leans forward, almost putting himself between Charlie and Carlos. 

“So, Charlie, when’re you and Gat gettin’ married? If you leave it too long, people are gonna talk.” 

Neither of the pair in the front seats reacts for what feels like a long time, most likely just for the sheer unexpectedness of Maero suddenly taking it upon himself to join their little game as an active party, and for those few long seconds, Maero wonders if perhaps he’s been too bold, if he’s overstepped and spoiled things by trying to include himself without being invited.

Carlos looks like he wants to laugh, but all the while, his eyes are darting back and forth between Maero and Charlie, waiting for Charlie’s reaction. His uncertainty is understandable; Charlie can be notoriously unpredictable, even for the people who know him well, and Carlos in particular is still very reliant on taking his cues from Charlie much of the time.

“... Well.” Charlie’s tone, when he finally returns his attention to the road and speaks, is blessedly mundane. “You know, we had discussed it, but it’s an awful expense, isn’t it.” 

“Oh, sure.” Thank fuck for that. “One of my guys, his sister got married last year, and the second she said the word ‘wedding’ to anyone involved in the catering or the event planning or anything, the prices would near enough double.”

“Fuckin’ highway robbery is what it is,” remarks Charlie. “But you know,” he adds, glancing to the right as he spots their exit, indicates and starts turning, “I’ve always wanted a summer wedding myself, although I don’t know if Johnny will agree.” 

“Am I gonna be the ringbearer?” asks Carlos, unabashedly delighted that Maero has been allowed to play their game with them. “I wanna be the ringbearer.” 

“Of course, my boy, of course. But you might have to fight Pierce for the position. You know what he’s like.”

It’s not too much longer until they’re pulling into the docks and Maero is getting out, and it’s almost a shame to be doing it, but as he thanks Charlie for the ride and waves him and Carlos off, he supposes that there are worse people he could be getting chummy with. It’s been the better part of a year, and during all of that, the only times when Maero didn’t have fun hanging out with Charlie and his buddies were those times when he was too suspicious of them all to let it happen.

And Carlos, he’s a good kid, especially now that he’s coming out of himself a bit. It does still worry Maero that he’s going to get a phonecall one day and hear that Charlie has turned on him and snapped his neck or something, but Carlos is a Saint, and Charlie only seems to have that kind of dangerously sociopathic streak when it comes to people who  _ aren’t _ Saints, people who don’t fall within the circle that Charlie draws around himself and his allies. 

Maero highly doubts that the extended Brotherhood in its entirety likewise falls within that circle, but it’d be nice to believe that he himself does, at least, along with his close friends. Whilst Donnie is still flat-out terrified of Charlie and wants absolutely nothing to do with him, Matt, on the other hand, has been casually fascinated by him ever since he heard him playing in the street that one time, and is perpetually encouraging Maero to bring him over more often. Jess still doesn’t like him much, and Maero gets the impression that the feeling is mutual, but Charlie generally only tends to murder in cold blood those people for whom he has no thoughts at all, from what Maero has seen; he may not  _ like _ Jessica, but she’s a person to him.

There’s another house party coming up at the weekend, isn’t there? Heading indoors and greeting his fellows as he goes, Maero finds himself looking forward to it a bit more than perhaps he ought to. Working with Charlie is one thing, but actually spending time with him? That’s  _ great. _


	8. DAYS 10 & 11: “THRIVE” & “NAIL”

Now this,  _ this  _ is the kind of work Johnny can get into. No sneaking around, no fast talking or shady motives, just him, Charlie and a bunch of their fellow Saints, and a hell of a lot of guns. 

The Saints are thriving, and it’s bad news for their neighbours, the Samedi. They’ve been tangling where their borders meet on and off for the last few months, but now that Charlie’s sure that Maero isn’t keeping nearly as close an eye on him and his gang as he should be anymore, it’s open season. Charlie intends to expand the Saints’ territory. 

This is what Charlie was waiting for, and, moreover, it’s what  _ Johnny _ was waiting for. 

Shit like this is the reason Charlie’s the one between them who took up leadership of the gang, Johnny reflects, gleefully unloading a Krukov in the direction of an oncoming car full of Samedi, which shortly swerves straight into a lamp post when the driver takes several fatal hits. He likes to get out and get stuck in, as Charlie would put it, and all of the misdirection and fancy talk that’s been going on to keep the Brotherhood off their backs feels like… well, not a  _ waste of time, _ exactly, it’s obviously not a waste of time, considering how much breathing space it’s bought them, but it doesn’t sit well with him. It’s dishonest, not like getting up in an asshole’s face and nailing them yourself. 

That’s not to say that Charlie doesn’t enjoy this kind of work too, though. He’s not far away, likewise filling the bodies of nearby Samedi with lead, and of course, there’s Carlos, right by his side. Johnny can’t pretend that he doesn’t feel conflicted about that; it’s great that Charlie’s finally letting the kid come out and do some actual fucking work for a change, fuck knows it’s about time he came out from under Charlie’s wing, but if anybody’s likely to get their ass blown away for forgetting to look over his shoulder or expecting someone else to keep him covered all the time, it’s Carlos. 

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that Charlie would be heartbroken if anything happened to Carlos, and he’d be far from the only one, too. Carlos is a good kid. He’s a really good kid, and a good Saint, even if he is still far newer to the Saints’ line of business than he’d like anyone to know. But he’s learning. He’s getting there. Charlie’s teaching him well, keeping an eye on him, and Shaundi and Pierce are looking out for him, too - even now, in fact, they’re right there, all of them covering for each other and watching each other’s backs. 

Charlie’s deal with Maero and the Brotherhood might have given them some breathing space, but this? This is what makes the Saints successful. They stick together, pick up after each other. 

With the numbers and firepower the Saints have gathered while working right under Maero’s nose, they sweep through the university district like a tide, and the Samedi - and, more importantly, their would-be recruiters - are either killed or driven out, although mostly killed. Before long, there’s nothing more for the Saints to do but come together and congratulate each other on a job well done, which they do with gusto. It was a little after midnight the last time anyone checked, and with there still being a few hours left until dawn comes around, the noise of their whooping and cheering carries easily on the cool night air. Everyone’s going to know who won here tonight.

Charlie brings his lieutenants in to personally congratulate them on their work, and Johnny is still surprised at how specific he can be in his praise. Even in the middle of a firefight, Charlie is watching what his fellows are doing closely enough that he can tell them exactly what they did well, and now that they’re all celebrating and high on their success, he’s keen to encourage them all to do the same, to compliment and appreciate each other. 

Naturally, everyone has plenty to say about the shit they saw Johnny pull off, and he pretends to be modest about it, or as modest as he can be, trying to teach the younger Saints by example how to be tough and capable without being a shithead about it. They all look up to him, he knows, every bit as much as they look up to Charlie, and even if he isn’t the Boss, Johnny knows he has a responsibility to them. He’s Charlie’s right-hand guy for a reason, and it’s not just that he’s the toughest son of a bitch in Stilwater.

No, him and Charlie, they’re a team, a pair, a package - a poet and a one man band, as Charlie drunkenly said that one time. Johnny’s always quite liked that; there’s been far worse things that people have called him over the years than a “one man band”. 

Speaking of Charlie, he’s especially pleased about this little victory. He’s been eager to get the Samedi out of the university for a while, and Johnny gets the feeling that it’s not only for turf or PR purposes. Charlie is very much of the opinion that kids shouldn’t be getting caught up in hoodlum business, and especially that gangs shouldn’t be  _ actively and deliberately recruiting kids, _ and the Samedi operations around the university have been rankling him ever since he first heard about them from Shaundi. 

It’s weird. Most leaders wouldn’t be so fussy about where their street soldiers came from - as so plainly evidenced by the Samedi’s own activities - but Charlie, for reasons he has yet to elaborate on even to Johnny, let alone to anyone else, won’t have it. They have Carlos, to whom Charlie owes a debt for helping him get out of prison, but there’ll be no more like him, and even in Carlos’ case, Charlie is reluctant to put him in too much danger if he can help it. The Saints don’t recruit kids, and now, neither do the Samedi. 

Johnny imagines that there’s likely something in Charlie’s past behind the decision, and he considers, not for the first or last time, that even after all these years, he still knows precious little about Charlie, about where he came from or who he was before he showed up in Stilwater one day and joined the Saints, apparently for no other reason than because they were there and because Julius asked him to. Not that it matters; it’s not like Johnny talks about where  _ he  _ came from, and if Charlie wanted him to know his background, he’d have mentioned it already. 

The Saints spend the rest of the night establishing themselves in the University district, setting up patrols and what have you, doing what they can to make sure that the Samedi don’t just walk straight back in again in the morning. The place is  _ theirs _ now, and they intend to keep it that way. Shaundi’s in charge of keeping tabs on the Samedi, and as such, Charlie tells her that she’s likewise responsible for keeping tabs on their former kicking grounds as well, that she’ll be the gang’s first point of contact if the Samedi cause any problems here. 

At least, until they manage to wipe them out in their entirety, which isn’t going to take long if things keep going this well. Johnny’s excited about that. That’s gonna be fun. 

The Saints are thriving, and there’s going to be plenty more action to come as they thrive all the more. 


	9. DAY 15: “TENUOUS”

“... Hey, Boss?” 

“Mm?” Charlie barely looks up from his phone. “What is it, my boy?”

Carlos, despite Charlie’s relaxed, easygoing response, hesitates before he asks the question that’s been on his mind all day, and really, if he’s being honest, all week, all month, and all year. 

“... Boss, am I good enough?” 

If it were anybody else asking, it might be tempting to casually say, “Good enough for what?”, but Charlie knows  _ exactly _ what Carlos is asking him, and why, and as they both stand there in the garage, the only quiet corner of the HQ these days, he turns to look at the youngster, and sees himself in him all over again. Suddenly it doesn’t seem so long ago at all that Charlie was the youngest, least experienced member of his old gang back in London, not only eager to prove himself but  _ desperate, _ constantly sensing that every mistake he made might be the last mistake his betters were willing to put up with, that his place amongst the people he loved and depended upon was frighteningly conditional and tenuous through every second of every day. 

The thought that Carlos might feel even the least bit of what he himself felt back then cuts him to the quick. 

“Of course you are,” Charlie tells him, gently placing a hand on Carlos’ shoulder. “Of course you are, my boy. Why on Earth wouldn’t you be?” 

His words seem to do little to reassure Carlos, however, who is still frowning, still looking down and away from him, unable to bring himself to meet Charlie’s gaze. He gives a soft, shallow sigh as he tries to think of a way to explain without making a fool of himself, and Charlie, his heart aching for how well he knows what must be going through Carlos’ mind, gives his shoulder a squeeze and lets him take his time. 

It’s only what he would have wanted back then. 

“... It’s just…” Carlos’ frown deepens. “... I take up so much of your time, man. You’ve got so much to do, but you’re always stuck with me following you around, and I don’t even…” That little sigh escapes on his breath again. “... I don’t even pull my weight around here.” 

“You’re still learning!” Charlie, stuffing his phone into his pocket, gently moves to put his arm around Carlos’ shoulders. “Look, come here. Come here. You can’t expect to cram a lifetime of experience into a matter of months, boy! There’s a lot to take in!” 

Even then, Carlos still doesn’t quite manage to look at him, his body stiffens under Charlie’s arm, and Charlie, immediately, knows that Carlos doesn’t believe him, that he thinks he’s just trying to spare his feelings. And Charlie  _ is _ trying to spare his feelings, because god knows nobody back in the old gang would have gone to the trouble of doing it for him when he was afraid or in doubt of himself and he’s determined that Carlos is going to have better than he had when he was coming up, but that’s not to say that he doesn’t mean every word of it.

“You just think you owe me ‘cause I helped you get out of prison,” says Carlos, quietly. “I fuck up all the time and you just put up with me ‘cause you think you owe me.” 

“No, no, no. Come here. Come here.” 

When he pulls Carlos in and hugs him, it’s as much to comfort himself as Carlos. It feels like there’s a lead weight in his chest, tugging at the underside of his sternum as it sinks into the pit of his stomach, and it hurts so much that he can hardly bear it. 

Carlos is going to have better. Charlie will fight and  _ die _ to make sure that Carlos has better. 

“You deserve to be here,” he mutters against Carlos’ ear, struggling not to hold him any tighter than he already is. “You’re a fucking Saint, and you’re  _ always  _ gonna be a Saint, no matter how long it takes you to learn or how many times you fuck up. The rest of us have had a head start on you, that’s all, and I will be there for you, and I will wait for you while you catch up.” 

It takes a few moments for Carlos to react, but when he does, it almost takes Charlie by surprise; to begin with, Carlos only hugs him back, and even that is tentative at first, but within seconds he’s burying his face in Charlie’s shoulder and all but squeezing the air out of him for how hard he’s clinging to him, grabbing distraught, hungry fistfuls of his shirt - and then Charlie hears him sniffle. 

“Oh, Carlos. Oh, mate.” 

Charlie got beaten for crying when he was a kid. It didn’t matter  _ why  _ he was crying, it only mattered that he  _ stopped, _ because nobody had any patience for the noise or the inconvenience of it, and now, here’s Carlos, fighting with all his might not to cry, not to make any noise, not to be an inconvenience to Charlie, and Charlie realises, in that instant, that he has a choice. 

Charlie, truthfully, has no idea how to comfort anyone, has no idea how to be a good role model, no idea how to be a good mentor. All he can do is look back on his own memories of what his old keepers did to him when he was unhappy or troublesome or made mistakes, and he can either do what they did, and continue the cycle that they set in motion, or he can do the opposite. 

“It’s alright, mate. It’s alright.” It’s not a difficult choice to make. “You can cry if you want, mate. I won’t tell anyone. You’re a good lad, and a good Saint, and I’m here for you, for whatever you need me for.” 

In the end, Carlos doesn’t cry, but he does sniffle a few times more, and he’s not in a great hurry to let Charlie go now that he’s hugging him. When he does finally step back, it’s when he’s had a little bit to settle himself, and Charlie offers him a reassuring smile and a pat on the back.

“You’re a good lad, Carlos. Don’t you worry, alright? You’ll get there.” 

Carlos nods, hastily wiping his nose on the back of his hand. 

“Okay.” 

“Now then,” says Charlie, retrieving his phone, “Johnny says he’ll be back home in a bit, and then the lot of us can go to Freckle Bitch’s and get our tea before we go ‘n’ get some work done. Shaundi tells me there’s some shit going on with the Samedi over at the docks, and I thought it might be nice if the five of us go and make an evening of it. You’ll want to help out with that, won’t you?” 

“Yeah!” He’s looking a lot happier already. That’s good. “You can count on me, Boss.” 

“That’s my boy. Now, you know the arrangement, don’t you?” 

“Mhm!” Carlos nods eagerly. “If I take out like four guys I get pizza.”

“Yes, and what else?” 

“... It’s only gotta be one if I kill him by hand, right?” 

“That’s right, there’s a good lad. Don’t worry if you don’t manage it this time, though. I know it’s tough, and there’s plenty more Samedi to cross off yet.” 

“Okay.” He pauses. “... We gotta get rid of the Ronin too, don’t we.” 

At that, Charlie goes quiet. 

“... Yeah,” he replies, eventually. “Yeah, we really do. But that’s… that’s Johnny’s call now, isn’t it. He’ll let us know what we’re doing with them.” 

“Aisha was your friend too,” Carlos says, his voice lowering to match. “Wasn’t she?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, she was. But… this is Johnny’s. Alright?” 

“Okay.” 

It’s not much longer after that when Johnny arrives home and pulls into the garage, where he’s enthusiastically greeted by both Charlie and Carlos, and all there is to do then is fetch Shaundi and Pierce so they can all pile into a car together and get themselves fed ahead of a good night’s work. 

For years - most of his life, in fact - Charlie had been convinced that their kind of business had to be driven by fierce ruthlessness and cold, calculating self-interest, but it doesn’t have to be like that. At least, not for his own people, anyway. The Saints, Charlie decides, will be better than the lot that raised him, and Carlos will always have somewhere to come home to, no matter what. 

That’s a promise. 


	10. DAY 18: “STICKY”

Usually, when someone talks about a “sticky situation”, it’ll be, like, that one time where they nearly died, or something. It’s not usually something like this.

Maero doesn’t  _ feel _ like his life is in danger, sitting here at Charlie’s table and shovelling bacon and eggs - admittedly, very  _ good _ bacon and eggs - into his mouth alongside Charlie and his lieutenants, but there’s definitely something sticky about it, like he’s going to struggle to get out. Like he’s already caught, and it’s too late to escape. 

This whole mess started about a month ago, and it had seemed innocuous enough then. Having been in Charlie’s neighborhood one morning, he’d had the thought that Charlie might like it if they met in person to have a proper talk about their new arrangements and Make It Official. Charlie is old fashioned about things like that; nothing agreed over text or even over the phone is Official unless there’s been a flesh and blood meeting and a handshake. 

The only thing is, Charlie’s not a morning person, mostly because he does most of his best work at night and in the wee hours before dawn, but it was about 11am, which, surely, you’d think would be late enough. And it was, sort of. Charlie was  _ awake, _ certainly, but when Maero and Matt arrived at the Saints’ hideout, Charlie’s friends directed them to the kitchen, and sure enough, Charlie was there, cooking up a hefty fried breakfast for himself and his buddies. The first thing Charlie did when he saw them was ask them if they wanted breakfast, a proposition that they immediately accepted. 

Charlie likes to cook, it turns out, when he has appreciative people to cook for, so it made sense to drop in on him again at around the same time later in the week for another free meal. 

The week after that, Maero made excuses enough to show up for breakfast at Charlie’s three times, and five times the week after that, but it’s only this week, specifically yesterday, that it became apparent that there might be a problem - when he didn’t show up for breakfast, Charlie  _ called him to find out where he was. _ Jess was none too pleased, to say the least, but the bigger issue was the realisation that he’d been showing up at Charlie’s for breakfast so regularly that Charlie thought it was weirder for him  _ not  _ to be there. 

And yet, here he is again, and so is Matt. 

Perhaps the oddest thing of all, though, is that there are Rules at breakfast, chief among them that one does not discuss work during meals. So not only have Maero and Matt been showing up and getting fed for free, but they’ve been having actual  _ conversations _ with Charlie and his friends, actual, real conversations about things unrelated to the business between the Saints and the Brotherhood. For the first time since they met last year, it feels like Maero might actually be getting to know him. 

For example, the first thing that Matt asked Charlie, naturally, was what kind of music he likes. Maero didn’t know what to expect, and yet even then he’d been surprised when Charlie wasn’t really able to give a solid answer. He’s one of those people who likes  _ songs _ more than they like any particular genre, a casual music lover. He hears something, he enjoys it, and more often than not, he’ll learn to play it. That’s the extent of Charlie’s interest in music.

That girl, Shaundi, was a bit more forthcoming with specifics and sounded more like she knew what she was talking about, but the whole thing was definitely an eye opener. It’s easy to forget, Maero found himself reflecting, what the people outside of his own little circle can be like, how culturally different people can be, even though they all live in the same city. They’re practically neighbours, and yet talking to Charlie and his Saints sometimes feels like making contact with a different species. 

Although, that’s not to say that they’ve had nothing to talk about. When Maero asked Charlie what England was like, it was initially a tongue-in-cheek sort of question, a joke, really, but Charlie was happy to talk about it all the same, and judging by how ready everyone else was to listen - even amongst his own gang - it seemed like it might have been the first time he’d ever mentioned it. He prefers the weather back home to the kind of heat they get here, he said. 

Apparently he spent his childhood in the countryside, but he had to move into the city when he was a teen. Out of the two, he’d preferred the country; London had been fine enough once he’d learned how to live there, but he missed the birdsong, the clean air and being able to see the stars at night. He still misses them now, and Maero had left after breakfast wondering, in no small way, what could make those little, inconsequential things so important that Charlie would still care about them so much. Then again, he’s always lived in the city. Maybe if he’d ever lived in the country, he might understand.

Charlie, in turn, asked Maero about his tattoos, and Maero had been all too happy to show them all off - and to compliment Matt the whole time he was doing it, because, you know, credit where credit’s due. Everyone was mightily impressed, which is half the fun of being covered in tattoos, really. 

Well. Almost everyone, anyway. Mr Gat, it would appear, is considerably harder to impress than the rest of Charlie’s bunch, although Maero supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, given that Gat has barely said a word to him on  _ any _ occasion when he’s been a guest in the Saints’ collective home. 

Gat doesn’t like him, and doesn’t care much for the partnership between Maero and his Boss. Even though he didn’t say as much, he didn’t need to - there are misgivings about their arrangement on both sides of the fence, evidently. In a way, it’s almost reassuring; if everyone was always happy to see him, Maero might begin to suspect that they were hiding something, but the fact that Gat is reliably unwilling to involve himself in conversations or even smile at anybody while Maero is visiting makes the Saints’ attitudes in general feel sincere. 

Today, Gat is no different than he usually is, sitting across the table from Maero, next to Charlie, every bit as surly and unimpressed as he ever has been at breakfast. But Charlie, on the other hand, has news to share. 

“Listen, mate.” As much as there are Rules at breakfast, not speaking with your mouth full has never been one of them. “I thought it might be nice to throw a little party to celebrate our new agreement. I expect I can count on you and your lot to turn up, right?”

“Of course!” Maero doesn’t even have to think about it. He does, however, have the decorum to swallow before he says any more. “But you throw one of these things near enough every month, don’t you? You gonna make this a special occasion?” 

“Now look here,” Charlie retorts, waving a greasy fork at him, “I’m lucky enough to have a place nice enough that I’m not ashamed to have people over now, and I’m gonna make the most of it, alright? And to answer your question, I did have some ideas. Thought we might make it a bit of a  _ soirée." _

“I’m all ears.” 

“Alright, get this:  _ Masquerade. _ That’ll be a bit of fun, won’t it?” 

“Y’mean like masks ‘n’ shit?” Matt already sounds like he’s sold. “Costumes? Can we make ‘em ourselves?” 

Charlie nods, and swallows. 

“Well that’s the idea,” he replies, “Yeah.” 

Matt briefly ceases to concern himself with breakfast to stare hopefully at Maero. Maero raises an eyebrow at him.  _ Of course _ Matt wants to go.  _ Of course _ he does, and Maero smirking, turns back to look at Charlie.

“... I’ll think about it.” 

“It’ll be in a couple of weeks in any case,” says Charlie. “I’ll text you a date. We want everyone to have time to get costumes in order, don’t we. We’re all busy men.” 

“Sure thing.”

“... I’m glad you guys come to our parties.” Carlos, sitting on Charlie’s other side, grins. “The brawl at the end of the night is always a lot more fun when you’re there.” 

The brawl at the end of the night is practically a scheduled event at this point, and Maero does have to admit that he enjoys it as much as anything else that goes on at a Charlie Party. There are no weapons, so the worst anyone tends to come away with is a black eye or maybe a broken nose, nothing that can’t be put right easily enough, and it’s as good a way to round off the evening as any. 

Other than the brawl, though, there’s seldom ever any real mischief. The worst thing that’s ever happened was that time Matt passed out drunk on a couch and woke up with one of his eyebrows shaved off. 

Just one. 

“Did you ever find out who shaved off Matt’s eyebrow, by the way?” Not that Maero expects to actually find out. “I mean it was funny, don’t get me wrong, but he looked like shit for weeks afterwards.” 

“I had to decide whether to just leave myself with one eyebrow until the other one grew back or shave the other one off too so I matched,” says Matt, only sounding a little sad about it.

“IT WAS PIERCE.” Shaundi somehow manages to avoid decorating the table with her food as she blurts it out. 

“What the fuck!” Pierce immediately balks. “It was not me! That’s the kind of shit you’d do! That was you!” 

_ “Don’t bicker at the fucking table!” _ Charlie snaps, glaring at them.

It’s enough to silence the argument in an instant, and for a short while, everything goes very quiet, until Charlie sighs, and relaxes again. 

“Anyway,” he says, levelly, returning his attention to his plate, “I did want to mention, Maero - and don’t take this the wrong way - I did want to mention, if your Jess can’t be trusted to come along and enjoy a party without being racist at somebody, it might be best if she  _ did not attend. _ ”

“Oh, yeah.” Maero frowns. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’ll talk it over with her.” 

“Good stuff. And we’ll have an embargo on shaving off each other’s eyebrows while we’re at it.” 

“Hah.” 

Having breakfast at Charlie’s has been an unexpected development, especially weird for how bizarrely  _ domestic  _ it is, but it’s a nice change of pace, and it’s gone a long way towards bringing people together. And the parties. They help, too.

This partnership was a great idea - just not for the reasons Maero had assumed it would be. 


	11. DAY 20: “DONKEY”

“Pierce, why the fuck is there a truckload of jackasses in our garage?” 

“Hey, don’t look at me, man.” Pierce raises his hands as Gat glares at him. “The Boss wanted ‘em. I just went and got ‘em.” 

“Ooh, are they here?” On cue, Charlie appears in the garage, rubbing his hands together and grinning with excitement. “Good work, Pierce.”

“Thanks, Boss.” Pierce looks almost as pleased at the recognition of his success. “There’s gonna be some disappointed kids at the beach, though.” 

“It’s fine,” says Charlie, waving a dismissive hand at him before peering into the trailer at the trio of donkeys inside. “It’s fine, it’s fine. They’ll get ‘em back soon enough.” 

Johnny, however, demands answers.

“Boss, what the fuck is goin’ on!? Where the fuck did they come from!?”

“Easy, Johnny, easy. Let me explain, alright? You remember me sayin’ how I’d been down the beach the other day ‘n’ seen ‘em sellin’ donkey rides and what have you, and I was surprised on account of it havin’ been an English thing, as far as I knew?” 

“Yeah.” Gat folds his arms. “I remember.”

“Well, I thought it might be a bit of fun if we borrowed ‘em for an afternoon, y’know?” 

“Go on.” 

“We’re gonna take ‘em down the mall ‘n’ set ‘em loose in there,” says Charlie, plainly. “Basically.” 

“What, just for fun, or…?” 

“No, no, no.” He pauses. “Well, yeah. But y’know, while the security’s busy, we’ll get some good honest robbery done as well, won’t we.” 

“And how long d’you think this’ll keep ‘em busy for?” asks Gat, not sure whether to be impressed or not. “I mean, they’re just gonna catch ‘em.” 

“Well, that’s part one of the plan, isn’t it. Oh, and here comes part two.” 

“Heeey.” Part two, apparently, is Shaundi, half-jogging into the garage with a bag in her hand. “Hope I didn’t keep you guys waiting too long. Laura did a great job, though! You’re gonna love ‘em.” 

“Ooh, give.” Charlie’s grin grows ever wider as he reaches for the bag. “Give, give, give.” 

His face lights up even more as he opens it up and produces from inside a colourful cape, lovingly embroidered with a big, bright red “2”. It’ll be easy to see from a distance. There are two others in the bag, but Charlie, already chuckling wickedly to himself, thinks better of showing them off just yet. 

“Please tell Laura thank you for me,” he tells Shaundi, warmly. “She’s done a  _ wonderful _ job. Now, these three fellows have a busy afternoon ahead of them, so let’s get them some water, shall we? Would you be kind enough to fill a bucket for them, please, Shaundi?” 

“Of course, Boss.” She’ll never cease to be tickled by the weirdly polite manner that comes out of Charlie when he’s happy. “No problem.” 

“What about me, Boss?” Pierce is eager to be helpful, too. "What can I do?” 

“Here.” Charlie offers the bag. “Put these on ‘em. Be nice to ‘em, now. They’re doin’ us a service.” 

“Can they come out of the trailer?” asks Pierce. “It seems kinda mean to keep ‘em cooped up in there.” 

“Yeah, that’s true, isn’t it. We’ll see if we can’t find ‘em somethin’ to eat as well, I don’t expect they’ve been fed for a while.” 

Johnny sighs. 

“I’ll tell the guys to keep the garage door shut.” 

“Good man. Now,” says Charlie, “Carlos is down at the mall lookin’ things over for us, and he reckons the best way to get ‘em in’ll be via the parking entrance…” 

A little while later, three donkeys are standing around in the Saints’ garage, happily munching on the heap of carrots they’ve been hastily offered, and it’s only now, seeing them all with their lovely little numbered capes on, that Johnny appreciates the true bastard genius of Charlie’s plan. 

Three donkeys, numbered “1”, “2”, and… “4”. 

Johnny can’t help but laugh, and he’s not the only one - if Charlie’s grin were any wider, the top of his head might fall off. 

“They’re gonna have some fun lookin’ for number three, in’t they.” 


	12. DAY 21: “ALOOF”

It’s a damn shame what’s happened to the church. 

Every time he drives past it, or sees it on the local news, or thinks of it at all, that’s the thought that comes to Johnny’s mind. Obviously it’s  _ nice _ that the church has been taken care of and renovated and everything and that it’s not boarded up and shitty anymore, but the church used to feel like home, once upon a time, and now that place, the place that Johnny remembers, the place where he spent so much of his youth and became so much of what he is now, doesn’t exist anymore. It’s still  _ there, _ but it’s not the same. 

It’s a cinch that Charlie feels similarly about it. Johnny hasn’t asked him, but he’s seen him when they’ve passed it. He scowls at it hard enough to bare teeth, and Johnny can’t blame him. The church was an important place for him, too. In many ways, for Charlie, the church literally  _ was _ home. He didn’t have anywhere else to go, back then. 

It feels so long ago. 

As much as Johnny’s been there with him the whole time - or at least, the whole time while he’s been awake - it feels like Charlie’s a whole different person to the one he met all those years ago, too. He  _ is _ a whole different person; the old Charlie that came to the church when Julius offered him a chance to join the Saints was a fucking animal, and while it may be true that the Charlie everyone knows now is still a little bit feral at times, he’s nowhere near as bad as he used to be.

And he  _ was  _ bad. He didn’t want anything to do with anybody when he first showed up. He just arrived one day, beat up enough people to prove his worth and started doing Julius’ work like it was nothing. Didn’t want to hang out if there wasn’t a job to do, wouldn’t even  _ talk _ to anyone if he didn’t have a gun to his head, and far too ready to stab people if they got in his face. He soon made a reputation for himself. 

But it was fear, at the end of the day. It took a long time to see through to it, but it was fear. Charlie was broken in many ways, the traces of a lifetime of abuse and neglect littered all over his body for anyone to see if they got close enough to look properly; of course it made sense that he’d push people away. Even after he began to settle a little, he wasn’t interested in making any friends, and most of his fellow Saints viewed him as merely being very aloof, having found his place in the gang and no longer needing to carve a niche out for himself with violence. 

Johnny knew, though. Johnny saw it all. 

The first time he’d dragged Charlie to his guy at the hospital, it was because of the cataracts. One day he’d managed to catch a glimpse behind the shades Charlie wore - the shades he  _ wore all the fuckin’ time, _ even at night, which should have been a tip-off in and of itself - and saw that his eyes were almost completely clouded over. Suddenly it made sense that he couldn’t drive or shoot for shit. He must have been almost completely blind, down to navigational vision at best, and Johnny had been  _ getting into a car with him. _

On top of that, though, it meant that Charlie didn’t have a hope in hell of recognising anyone if he didn’t hear them speak, unless he was willing to risk letting them come close enough that they might be able to hurt him. Of course he’d be leery, of course he’d be defensive, and boy, he was mad when he realised that Johnny had found out. He’d hated Johnny in the first place, the only person he couldn’t beat in a fight, the only person he couldn’t strike fear into or push away, and now this, too? Not that there was anything he could do about it, mind you, with Johnny being the tougher one between them.

Johnny had hated Charlie straight back, to begin with, but then he’d seen the fucking cataracts, and he  _ understood. _ Eesh suggested that Charlie might be nicer if they helped him, and if nothing else, he’d be more useful to the gang if he could see, so they did, just the two of them. Johnny couldn’t convince Julius that it was worth what it’d cost to fix him, so him and Eesh had to work it out themselves. 

Charlie didn’t want to go to the hospital. He fought Johnny tooth and nail every step of the way, to the degree that Johnny finally resorted to knocking him out when Charlie, desperate to just  _ get away,  _ literally turned and sank his teeth into the arm Johnny had him in a headlock with. If nothing else, it made him easier to examine, but the reason for him being so adamant not to let anyone examine him very quickly became very apparent.

The cataracts weren’t even the half of it. 

His teeth were worn and full of cavities. His whole left side was smattered with scars that still had shrapnel embedded in the flesh underneath. Three of the fingers on his right hand had been broken at some point and had healed poorly, probably untreated, and certainly not treated professionally. There were untreated injuries that had healed with varying degrees of success all over his body, from head to toe. 

It was going to cost so much more than Johnny and Eesh had anticipated to even  _ begin _ to solve Charlie’s problems, but the knowledge of the vast scope of those problems only made it more important to help him, Eesh said. Charlie must have been in agony through every second of the fucking day; he couldn’t eat without his teeth hurting, couldn’t grasp anything without his fingers aching, most likely couldn’t even so much as  _ breathe _ without pain for all the shards in his fucking ribs. And yet, through all of that, he managed to come off as being  _ aloof. _

Even biting down on Johnny’s arm must have hurt like hell, but he’d still done it, and hard enough to draw blood. It was fear, though. It was all fear, and fear can drive people to do all kinds of crazy things. Charlie needed help, and as much of a Cool Guy™ as Johnny liked to play at being, he wasn’t a bad person. He wasn’t heartless. And he’d have to be pretty fucking heartless to know exactly why Charlie was the way he was and choose not to help him while it was in his power to do it. 

Getting the money together was no small feat, but Johnny and Eesh did it between them, and after a lot more fights to get him into the hospital, they got him the help he needed in the end. It didn’t win either of them any favour from him to begin with, and not just because getting the cataracts removed and being able to see clearly for what must have been the first time in several years was probably like being blind all over again in some weird way. For Charlie to end up like that, a lot of people must have been pretty fucking cruel to him, and it made horrible, awful sense that he wouldn’t be quick to trust anyone, even if they seemed to be being kind to him. 

When Charlie learned to recognise Johnny by sight, it just meant that he could hate him from the other side of the room as well as up close. 

“Just stick with it.” That’s what Eesh said. “He’ll learn if we don’t ditch him and stick with it.” 

And it took a while, but she was right in the end. When she and Johnny kept helping him and didn’t ditch him when he didn’t immediately roll over and act like he was indebted to them for it - because he hadn’t asked them to help him, in fact he’d been rather adamant that they  _ didn’t _ help him - Charlie learned. He never got cozy with anyone else, but Johnny and Eesh? They became his first real friends. 

One of Johnny’s favourite memories of the old church as it was back then was watching Charlie lie in the grass out back on sunny days and actually  _ close his eyes _ and relax. The first time he’d done it, Johnny realised that Charlie wouldn’t have dared if he didn’t think Johnny and Eesh would look out for him. It was okay to lie in the grass and relax in the sun if they were there; it spoke volumes, all on its own. It took a long time even after that for him to start talking and hanging out properly, to stop being so fucking distant, but those first few sunny afternoons in the grass at the back of the church were when Johnny knew he and Eesh were getting somewhere with him. 

And look at him now! He’s doing great! He’s even let three whole new people come in and get close to him: Shaundi, Pierce and Carlos. As much as Johnny knows he’s still Charlie’s favourite, because he was always Charlie’s favourite, even between he and Eesh, it says a lot that he’s made friends with these newcomers so easily and so readily. And he  _ loves _ Carlos. He loves the  _ shit  _ out of Carlos. 

Johnny’s still a little surprised by that. Carlos isn’t  _ useless, _ but he’s not as capable as everyone else and therefore not nearly as useful. And yet, he’s the apple of Charlie’s eye. Charlie loves him. Old Charlie wouldn’t even have known  _ how  _ to love someone. Johnny and Eesh taught him that. And yeah, maybe the way Charlie loves people is a little weird sometimes, but that’s only to be expected, isn’t it? He’s new at it. 

He’s still got no idea where Charlie came from or who made him the way he was back then, and he’s not about to ask. Charlie would tell him if he wanted him to know. But nobody who met him now would ever think to call him “aloof”, that’s for damn sure. 


	13. DAYS 22 & 23 & 24: “DYNAMIC” & “UGLIEST” & “SLIP”

Maero is nervous. 

He hadn’t started the day nervous. In fact, it had been a fairly  _ good _ day until Charlie called. He’d been as friendly and conversational as he tended to be on any other day to begin with, but after a while, he got around to the point he was hoping to make by calling, and everything went to shit. 

“So, Maero. Mate. You, uh. You seen any Samedi around lately?” 

“Y’know, I haven’t.” Looking back, he must have seemed like an idiot for sounding so pleased about it. “You’ve been doing a great job keeping ‘em busy.” 

“Oh, I’ve done more than that, mate.” Charlie’s smile was audible. “And, uh. Have you seen any Ronin about, for that matter?” 

“Well, uh.” Oh no. “... There was that shit with Gat’s girlfriend, wasn’t there?” Please. Please let it just be that. “I heard about that. That was bad, man. I hope he’s doing okay.” 

“He’s doing much better now.” His tone darkens. “We’ve been  _ very  _ busy, Maero. I think you and I should have a chat to  _ renegotiate the terms of our agreement." _

Maero felt his heart drop into his stomach as Charlie confirmed his worst fears. Still, it wouldn’t do to sound overly concerned, would it? 

“... Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Charlie, however, remains coldly businesslike. “You’ll want to come and meet me in the Arena district, I think. Half past midnight. I’ll be waiting.” 

And with that, he’d simply dropped the call. It didn’t even occur to Maero to try to call him back; the shell shock the initial conversation had left him with was too much to overcome right then and there. For nearly two years, Charlie had been his  _ friend, _ or so he’d thought, but just like that, everything has apparently changed. 

That said, Maero knows Charlie well enough by now to take him seriously. He wouldn’t do this if he wasn’t absolutely sure it would work in his favour, and blowing him off might have consequences. God knows Maero’s seen the kind of bloodthirsty shit Charlie is capable of. 

So now, here he is, crawling down the road towards the Ultor Dome in his truck with Jess and Matt. The directions had seemed vague at first -  _ where  _ in the Arena district did Charlie intend to meet him, exactly? - but then, as they’d come up through Chinatown, it became very apparent that they were going to receive directions. 

The main road towards Arena was lined on both sides by a long, unbroken line of Charlie’s Saints, every last one of them wearing the same ensemble: expensive black shoes, a sharp, well-fitted black suit, a white shirt, and a purple waistcoat with a matching tie, with a purple  _ fleur de lis _ pin on the left lapel of the suit jacket. The line started all the way back in Sunsinger, but they’re still passing them now, shoulder to shoulder, backs straight, hands neatly clasped in front. None of them appear to be armed - though it’s likely there are handguns hidden under those jackets - but they don’t have to be. There are far too many of them, and as the truck passes, they’re moving in to block off the road behind it and following at an easy walk. They know there’s nothing anyone can do about them.

Every last one of those suits looks tailored, Maero can’t help but notice, as he peers anxiously at the men and women lining the street around him. This isn’t only a show of sheer, brute strength in numbers, as impressive and intimidating as the numbers are, but also of  _ money. _ It’s a cinch that Charlie paid for every one of these outfits. He doesn’t tell his people to pay for anything out of their own pockets if it’s something he requires them to have, he’s always been very clear about that. 

The dynamic of the whole city has changed, and the fact that it’s happened right under his nose makes it feel like the biggest, ugliest slip-up Maero has ever made. 

“... Maero, I’m scared.” 

He turns to his right, and Jess, sitting in the passenger’s side, is hugging herself. She has every reason to be afraid in the face of Charlie’s ostentatious display of power; Charlie’s never liked her, after all, and as much as Maero wishes he could say that everything is going to be fine, that there’s nothing to be scared of, he’d be lying if he did. 

“... I know,” he says, eventually. “I know, Jess. Look, he’s… he’s just making us understand, that’s all. He knows how I do business, he knows how I operate. He’s showing us what he’s got because he might have had to fight us to convince me to renegotiate our deal if he just asked for it straight up, and he doesn’t want there to be any violence between us. That’s all it is. He’s just… making sure we know.” 

“I hope you’re right, man.” Matt, in the back seat, is likewise deeply unsettled. “I mean, imagine if this whole thing was just a scam to keep the Brotherhood off his back while he took care of the other gangs in town, right?” 

“He’d have just turned on us and killed us if that was the plan.” Maero’s grip on the steering wheel grows a little tighter as the Ultor Dome comes into view. “He wouldn’t have bothered to call and ask to negotiate if he was just gonna eat us alive.” 

“Unless he just wants to play with us before he does it,” mutters Jess. “We’re gonna fucking die.” 

“Jess.” The leather of the steering wheel begins to creak under Maero’s hands. “We’re not gonna die. He just wants to talk. That’s all he wants.” 

“We’re gonna  _ fucking  _ die, Maero!” Jess snaps. “We’re gonna  _ fucking  _ die, and it’s because you didn’t just kill him when you had the  _ fucking  _ chance! I told you you shouldn’t have fucking trusted that asshole!” 

“Jess, shut the fuck up!” Having already been under far too much pressure in the first place, Maero finally loses his composure and snaps right back at her, though he glares pointedly at the road ahead the whole time he’s doing it. “Shut the fuck up! We are  _ not  _ going to  _ fucking _ die! He just wants to  _ fucking _ talk! Alright!? He just wants to  _ fucking _ talk, and if we treat him with the respect he’s asking for with this fucking...  _ parade  _ he’s showing us, we will be  _ fine, _ okay!?” 

The interior of the truck goes deathly silent for a few long, uneasy moments, until Maero, gritting his teeth and doing his very best not to make eye contact with any of the hundreds of men and women they’re driving past - sure enough, they’re being corralled into the dome - finds his indoor voice again. 

“You better not say  _ shit _ to that kid, Jessica. You better not say  _ jack shit _ to that fucking kid.” 

“I won’t.” She doesn’t have to be told twice. “I won’t say a damn thing.” 

“You better not,” growls Maero, still bristling. “Or he really will kill us.” 

The arena under the dome, when they get inside, is well lit, and Charlie, as promised, is waiting for them in the centre, flanked by his four lieutenants. They’re all dressed up in tailored suits as well, only theirs are white with black shirts, in stark contrast to the rank and file Saints. Pierce looks fantastic, it has to be said, and Shaundi’s even got her hair tied back; it’s amazing that they’ve managed to get her looking tidy enough for the aesthetic to work. And there’s Carlos, right by Charlie’s side, as ever - opposite Gat, more fierce than Maero’s ever seen him - bereft of his little wool beanie and looking, suddenly, about five years older. Maero almost didn’t recognise him. 

But Charlie himself, meanwhile, is still dressed just the same as always, in that awful open silk shirt, conspicuous amongst his impeccably-styled fellows for looking so casual. He opens his arms to Maero and his friends as they get out of the truck, the rest of his Saints filing into the arena around them, and beckons them with a grin. 

Once, Matt described Charlie as being like if  _ 21st Century Schizoid Man _ was a person, and as Charlie greets them all and that grin begins to bear far too many teeth, Maero understands exactly what Matt meant when he said it. 

“Maero, mate! I’m so glad you came!” 

“Well, how could I not?” Maero endeavours to match his friendly tone, to sound unintimidated, as he approaches Charlie. It isn’t easy. “You extended such a  _ nice _ invitation.” 

“Yeah, you’ll have to forgive me for, y’know, all of this.” Charlie gestures broadly at the arena full of suited hoodlums. “But I had to make sure you knew that it wouldn’t be smart to turn me down before I started asking for anything.” 

“... Because you didn’t want there to be any bloodshed between us. Right?”

“That’s right.” 

So he was right, that  _ was _ the reason. It’s a relief, to say the very least of it, and it’s… well, “nice” is probably the wrong word, but it’s  _ good _ to have had it proven that he knows Charlie well enough to have read his motives correctly. 

“How did you…” Maero can’t help but look around the arena, at all of the black- and purple-clad people looking back at him and his friends. “... How did you  _ do  _ this? It took me  _ years _ to get this many people together. You did it in eighteen months.” 

“Oh, mate. You’re forgetting.” Charlie shrugs, still grinning. “The civvies like me. Word travels, y’know? This city’s up shit creek if you aren’t a rich cunt, mate. A lot of the time you won’t be able to get a job, or you won’t be able to get a job that pays enough to feed you, but someone you know always knows a guy, don’t they. By and by, it’ll get around to you that you can always go and talk to Charlie if you’re at rock bottom, and he’ll have something for you to do.” 

Of course. The fucking PR. He would never have invested so much time and effort into it if it wasn’t worth something. 

“That and I try to be nice to my people,” he adds. “‘Cuz word gets around about that, too, doesn’t it. There’s lotsa Ronin and Samedi who figured they’d be better off with me when they realised they weren’t on the winnin’ team no more.” 

“So you must’ve bought these guys their suits, right?” 

“Well, of course I did. Wouldn’t’ve been fair to demand somethin’ so expensive to come out of their own pockets for my sake when I have all the money, would it?” 

Right again. Maero knows Charlie pretty well, it would appear. 

“So.” He supposes they ought to get to the bottom line as quickly as possible, though. “What do you want?” 

At this point, Charlie could demand anything and it would be very difficult to refuse him. Even if Maero and his friends somehow got out of this arena full of Charlie’s men alive, a full scale war between the Brotherhood and the Saints would end poorly for both of them, but especially for the Brotherhood. Maero’s people certainly respect him, but Charlie’s people  _ like _ him too, and that’s to say nothing of the fucking civilians who  _ also  _ like him and probably wouldn’t hesitate to help him if he needed it. 

Charlie is Stilwater’s favourite lovable rogue, exactly as he planned to be, and Maero fully expects him to turn the stupid deal he offered when they first met around on him, to make Maero’s gang as good as his servants, the way Maero had intended for the Saints when he’d come up with the idea in the first place. 

With all of the cards in Charlie’s hands, how could this possibly turn out any differently? 

Charlie smiles. 

“Fifty percent.” Wait, what? “Make me an equal partner.” 

“... For real? That’s all you want?” 

“I mean…” He cocks his head, and gives Maero a quizzical look. “... I can make it shittier for you if it’d make you feel better.” 

“No, no! I just.” Taking a moment to order his thoughts, Maero sighs. “I just figured the whole point of this thing was that you’d done it all specifically for the purpose of turning on me and steamrolling me.” 

“Well, I mean it  _ was, _ ” Charlie admits. “That was absolutely the idea behind me taking that poxy deal from you in the first place, I absolutely planned to do that, but… fucks sake, mate, I like you. I don’t wanna do that anymore.” 

“Jesus, man.” The relief rushes out on Maero’s breath as a weak chuckle. “You sound like you regret it.” 

“Part of me fucking  _ does, _ mate,” Charlie fires back, frowning. “This wasn’t an easy decision for me, I’ll have you know. Playin’ nice doesn’t come naturally to me. I had to  _ choose _ to merely make things equal between us, just like I had to  _ choose _ to be your fucking friend. Now do you want the fucking fifty or not?” 

“Yes! Yes, of course!” Maero eagerly offers Charlie his open hand to shake. “It’s yours, brother. Equal partners, in all things. Now and always, right?” 

“Haha.” Taking Maero’s hand, Charlie gives a soft cackle. “Right.” 

The instant that handshake takes place, the whole arena erupts into raucous cheers as Charlie’s smartly-dressed hoods immediately drop their stern, professional veneer to celebrate, and Charlie himself glances over his shoulder at his lieutenants with a grin, wordlessly giving them permission to do the same. That permission can’t come quickly enough for Carlos, who has been trying very hard not to smile for a couple of minutes now, and he wastes no time at all in rushing up to Maero and Matt to shake hands with them too, shortly followed by Shaundi and Pierce. 

Gat, as ever, remains staunchly at Charlie’s side, playing his cards as close to his chest as he always does whenever Maero and his buddies show up. 

At the same time, Maero doesn’t fail to notice that Jess is hanging back, nor that nobody seems to be terribly upset about it. Charlie has not chosen to be  _ her  _ friend, evidently, and it’s unlikely that he ever will. Maero can understand it, and he can likewise understand that Jess is probably not very happy about this. Making friends and being chummy is not what she signed up for, and he knows it. In a way, she might have been happier if Charlie really  _ had  _ given the Brotherhood something to fight him over. 

He’ll have to have a talk with her about it later. 

Once it’s all done and dusted, Maero mentally starts counting down until the obligatory house party at Charlie’s is called to celebrate the new arrangements, and it happens even sooner than he’d guessed it would. Film noir, just like the first party Charlie ever invited him to, and Maero can’t pretend he isn’t excited about it. Charlie Parties are always good, especially now that he’s got the money to lay on some proper food and booze instead of asking people to bring their own. The man takes enormous pride in being a good host, which, Maero reflects, was one of the first things Charlie ever told him about himself. 

It’s not what he planned, sure enough, but maybe it’s not so bad. Charlie’s a decent guy, even if decency doesn’t come naturally to him, and his friends are pretty decent, too. Whether it was what he planned for or not, it’s turning out pretty well regardless. 

That, and the rank and file Saints have started wearing their suits and lapel pins in the street, Maero notices over the next few days. Seems they’re pretty happy, too. 


	14. DAYS 26 & 27: “PUSHY” & “DIFFERENT”

“Stop bein’ a shit, Charlie! Fuck, you’re all I got left! What the fuck am I s’posed to do!?” 

For weeks, Johnny’s been telling Charlie that they need to go to the beach. He’s been adamant, in fact, and Charlie had assumed, initially, that it was just because they haven’t been in so long, and because he’s been spending more time with Maero than Johnny would probably like. It made sense that he’d start getting to be so pushy about it, all things considered. 

But then he’d said  _ that, _ and Charlie understood, instantly. It had nothing to do with the beach, or with Maero, or anything like that. 

And Charlie had wanted to say, at the time, that it wasn’t true, that Johnny had Carlos, too, and Shaundi - although, maybe best not to mention Pierce - but as close as they’d all become, it wasn’t the same as what the two of them shared. The same as what the  _ three _ of them had shared, before they’d lost Aisha. They were all together again, and it was supposed to go back to the way it was in the old days, back before the boat, and the coma, and jail, but it didn’t, did it, and now it’s never going to be that way again. 

It’s weird to think about. Weird, and deeply unsettling. Both of them have been coping with it by focusing on the work, albeit different sides of it, but now that there’s so little to keep them busy with the Samedi and the Ronin having been scrubbed off the map, there’s nothing to distract them from their grief, and it’s finally starting to sink in. 

There’s only one thing that Charlie could have said, really. 

“... C’mon. Let’s go to the beach.” 

Going to the beach and getting hammered has been a regular ritual for Charlie and Johnny for many years, at least when they’ve had time for it: just the two of them, in the wee hours of the night, with nothing but the sea, the sand and a host of substances of varying legalities. It’s been a good, long while since the last time they came down to the beach, but now, here they are, sitting under the marina, just like old times. 

_ Almost  _ just like old times. 

They used to laugh a lot more, back then. Hell, they used to  _ talk. _ All that’s happening right now is that they’re sitting there, huddled together in the dark, leaning on each other and trying to take some comfort in each other’s company while they listen to the sound of the waves amidst the salty air of a warm summer night. It feels better than being alone, but then, anything would. 

It’s while Charlie is sitting there, resting his head on Johnny’s shoulder and focusing on Johnny’s breathing, the scent of his clothes, his skin, that he realises he doesn’t know how to grieve. Johnny and Eesh were his first friends, he’s never lost anyone he actually cared about before. How is this supposed to go? How is it supposed to work? What’s he supposed to do?  _ Is  _ he supposed to do anything? The only frame of reference he has, now that he thinks about it, is the shit he’s seen in movies and on TV, and they’re seldom reliable representations of anything, he’s come to learn. 

Is he going to feel like this forever? How can he make it  _ stop? _

He wants to ask Johnny all of these things - god knows he’s been asking Johnny questions like that and relying on him to fill the gaps in his experience of being a real human person in one way or another pretty much since the day they met - but somehow, it doesn’t feel appropriate. Not for this. Johnny has his own grief to cope with, and he doesn’t need Charlie being a pest and asking him to explain it to him. Hopefully, Charlie thinks, he’ll be able to figure it out just by watching. He’s learned plenty from Johnny that way over the years. 

Having him here does make it a little better, but then, it always does, doesn’t it? Johnny is Charlie’s rock, and it’s only a blessing that he’s so fucking tough. They almost lost  _ him _ back there too, and then Charlie would have been alone. Christ, it doesn’t bear thinking about; he spent so much of his life alone before he came here, joined the Saints and met Johnny, but now the weight and warmth of Johnny’s body resting against his own feels like the most precious, marvellous thing in the world, like he might die if he has to go back to being by himself after this.

Hoping to banish the thought from his mind, he huddles up against Johnny a little more, and Johnny, all too keen to oblige him, puts an arm around him before settling his cheek against Charlie’s head again. It takes some awkward wriggling for Charlie to get his own arm out from between them and return the gesture, but it’s worth the effort once he manages it, and he’s content, then, to close his eyes and forget about the rest of reality for a little while. 

It seems cliché to say that he wouldn’t notice if the city fell down around the two of them then and there, but that’s how it feels, and Charlie has no idea how long they’ve been there when Johnny gently, quietly disturbs him from it. 

“... Charlie?” 

Charlie, not having the energy or the want to move enough to speak up properly, stays where he is, and just barely lets Johnny know he’s listening. 

“Mm.” 

“Do you love me?” 

That, though, is enough to jolt him awake. His eyes snap open, and he doesn’t quite flinch, but his lips part for the silent but sharp inhale that comes as his mind starts racing, scrambling for an answer. Johnny, however, mercifully backs down from the question almost immediately. 

“Sorry. That was a shitty thing to ask. I know that shit’s not easy for you. Forget I said anything.”

“No, no. It’s, it’s alright.” Charlie lifts his head just enough to look up at Johnny and smile, and precisely no further. “You might have to help me figure it out, though.” 

“Fine,” chuckles Johnny, squeezing him. “C’mon, tell me about it, then.” 

It’s not hard to understand why he’d ask; as little as Charlie understands about love himself, he knows that Eesh and Johnny loved each other. If nothing else, they said so, and isn’t the whole point of having a boyfriend or a girlfriend that you love them? Charlie might not know the specifics of it, but he knows that they loved each other, and now that Eesh is gone, Johnny is probably fairly keen to hear that there’s still  _ someone _ here who loves him. 

And it would be easy, knowing that, for Charlie to simply say yes, of course he loves him, and really, he has a hunch that he does, but at the same time, it’d feel very disingenuous to just go ahead and say it when they both know that he’d be saying it just because Johnny wants to hear it. Johnny wouldn’t appreciate it, let alone be comforted by it. 

Better just to be honest, even if it  _ is _ harder. 

“Well.” Charlie squeezes Johnny back, and tries to ignore his rising anxiety. It’s  _ very _ likely that there are wrong answers here, and that the consequences for stumbling onto them might be dire and long-lasting. “Um.”

“Take your time. It’s okay.” 

“Aha, well, I mean…” He sighs. “... For one thing, when you say something like that, I know it’s true. If you say it’s alright, then it will be. I know I can trust you.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. No matter what else is happening, I know I’m safe with you. And, I mean, more than that, like… I like bein’ with you more than I like bein’ alone. I’d rather be with you than not.” 

“Wow. High praise.” 

“Haha, well, it, it’s true, isn’t it? Whenever you’re not there, I catch myself wishin’ you were. I like havin’ you about, even if there’s nothin’ to do or talk about. And… I mean, you know I don’t like it much when people try to get touchy-feely with me when I don’t want ‘em to, but… Fuck me, this is gonna sound weird. I like it when  _ you _ touch me. It’s nice.” 

“Man, I remember when you would’ve stabbed a motherfucker for tryn’a touch you if you didn’t offer ‘em a handshake first.” 

“Oh, I still would. Just not you.” 

“Haha. I’m honoured.” 

“Yeah, you fuckin’ should be.” 

When the soft, lazy laughter dies down, though, Charlie realises there’s something more to it that all of that, more than just the good, cozy stuff - something Charlie likes a lot less. 

“But, y’know,” he says, sounding considerably more uncertain and uncomfortable, “I have to tell you, with what happened to Eesh, it…” He holds Johnny just a little tighter. “... I don’t know what I’d’ve done if you’d died back there as well. Just thinkin’ about it makes me feel sick to my stomach. It’s fuckin’... it’s bad enough the fuckers got Eesh, but they nearly had you, too. Fuckin’ scares me to death.” 

“Yeah, well.” The weight of Johnny’s body resting against Charlie’s grows the slightest bit heavier. “You pulled my ass out of that fire, didn’t you.” 

“Least I could do, considerin’ it was my cock up what put you there in the first place.” 

“Hey. Let me take responsibility for my own shit, okay? I fucked up, not you. Besides,” Johnny adds, “We fucked those assholes right back, didn’t we. You ‘n’ me.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, we did.” 

“You ‘n’ me, we’re gonna stick together forever. We’re  _ never  _ gonna die.” 

“Haha. You reckon?” 

“Yeah!” Now, Johnny sits up enough to turn and look at Charlie properly. “We stick together, we’ll be okay no matter what.” 

“Well, if you say it,” says Charlie, looking warmly back at him, “It must be true.” 

Really, Johnny could tell him just about anything and he’d believe it. 

By far the greater treasure, though, is that Johnny  _ wants _ him, actually, really  _ wants _ him, not because he’s useful, or because he does good work, or because he has something that Johnny wants, but because he  _ likes _ him. Because they’re  _ friends. _ There was a time, and it feels so long ago now, when he wouldn’t have imagined such a thing was possible; shit like love and friendship seemed like make-believe things cooked up by Hollywood, like cafeteria food fights and being entitled to a phone call when you get arrested, but it’s  _ real.  _ It’s all  _ real. _

It’s just rare and hard to find, it turns out, which makes it all the more precious. 

“... Is it alright if I say I love you, Johnny?” Even as uncertain as he is, Charlie wants, so, so badly, for what he feels to be love, to be able to tell Johnny that he loves him. “Is… is that what this is? It is, isn’t it?” 

“Sure sounds like it to me,” Johnny tells him, with amused affection. “And you know I love you too, right, Charlie? You’re my best guy. I wouldn’t be without you for anything. If you wanna say you love me, go ahead. Say it as much as you want. And tell Carlos you love him too, while you’re at it.” 

“You…” Charlie stares at him. “... Y’think?” 

“Charlie, for fucks sake!” He almost laughs. “When you came home the other day, he ran at you and threw himself at you, and you let him! In fact, you didn’t just  _ let _ him - you were so happy to catch him ‘n’ hug him back, I couldn’t believe it! And you share your food with him! Years ago if I reached for your fries, you’d put a knife through my hand! But all he has to do is  _ look  _ at what you’ve got, and you offer it to him. You love the  _ shit  _ out of that kid, man. You need to tell him.” 

“... ‘Cuz you don’t know what’s gonna happen,” says Charlie, his expression dropping. “Do you.” 

“No.” Johnny, too, quietens. “No, you don’t.” 

“Well,” says Charlie, “For what it’s worth, then… I love you, alright? More than anything. I owe you so much, I can’t imagine living in a world without you in it, and honestly,” he adds, more than a little caught up in the emotion of the moment, “I just wanna be with you, all the time, and I would sleep in your  _ bed  _ with you if you’d let me, just so I wouldn’t have to miss you until the morning.” 

“Haha!” That puts the smile back on Johnny’s face, and he hastily rubs the back of his neck. “Oh. Shit, Charlie. You just came right out and said that, didn’t you.” 

Charlie grins. 

“Should I not have?” 

“Shit, Charlie. I…” Johnny’s grinning too, now. “... Look, if you really wanna sleep in my bed, I ain’t gonna stop you, okay? You… you just… you just go ahead ‘n’ do that if you wanna.” 

“Haha, alright.” 

Making Johnny laugh really is its own reward. His eyes are dark and elegant, and they twinkle when he smiles. The way his brow creases, the way his mouth stays soft and relaxed even his smile starts to show teeth, the way his shoulders shake with his laughter; Charlie’s never seen anyone who looks like Johnny on a magazine cover or a in fragrance ad, but he’s beautiful. Charlie could look at him all day, and really, now that he thinks about it, he does, pretty much. 

Maybe it’s true that things are different now - different to how they were before the boat and the coma, different to how they were when the two of them decided to get the Saints back together, different to how they were before Aisha was killed - but they’ll manage, one way or another. 

They’ve got each other. 

They’ll manage. 


	15. DAY 28: “FALSE”

“What!?” Shaundi stares in barefaced disbelief. “Shut up! No way are you fucking straight, that’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.  _ Lies! _ Lies and  _ fucking  _ falsehoods!” 

“What!? Why!?” Charlie stares right back at her, frowning. “Why’s that so hard to believe!?” 

“Boss, you’ve never had a girlfriend, you’ve never even hired a hooker, and every fucking day I catch you looking at Gat like he’s made of magic. Like hell are you straight.” 

“He’s my best friend!” protests Charlie. “I love him! Don’t you appreciate your fucking friends!? In fact,” he hastily adds, “Don’t answer that. You fuck most of your friends.” 

“Damn right I do. Maybe you should take a page outta my book, huh, Boss?” 

“Shut up.” 

“He took me to check on Tee’N’Ay with him after we’d bought it out and treated all the strippers like his little sisters,” Carlos remarks, plainly, not even bothering to look up from his beer as he says it. “They thought it was great.” 

“That’s got nothin’ do with anything! They’re our girls! We’ve gotta look after ‘em! The Ronin treated ‘em like shit! Where d’you think our money comes from!? You treat those fucking girls with respect!” 

“Boss, you kissed that girl on the cheek and told her she looked lovely.”

“So, what, can he not compliment her?” demands Pierce. “Is it only straight if he treats her like dirt?” 

“Thank you, Pierce.” 

Carlos glances away and settles back into the couch, failing to suppress a smile as Charlie turns to scowl at him from the other end. 

“I’m just saying, Boss.” 

“Look here, you little shit -” 

“- But you think Gat’s handsome,” interjects Shaundi, likewise far too amused by all of this. “Right?”

“Well, I mean...” That stumps him. “... Doesn’t everybody?” 

Charlie’s three lieutenants look at each other, and there’s silence for a few moments while they each try to unpack exactly what he’s just said. 

“So,” says Shaundi, eventually. “Lemme get this straight.” 

“Or not,” adds Carlos, wholly unintimidated by Charlie glaring at him. 

“Or not, as the case may be,” Shaundi amends, stifling a laugh. “You think Gat is, like,  _ so objectively pretty _ that you just assumed everyone must crush on him at least a little?”

“Hey, hey, wait!” Pierce, as ever, is eager to come to Charlie’s defense. “Can’t a guy just appreciate another guy aesthetically? Doesn’t have to mean anybody’s crushin’ on anybody.”

“Yes,” agrees Charlie. “Exactly.  _ Thank you, _ Pierce. I’m glad  _ someone’s _ got some fuckin’ sense around here.” 

“You’re welcome, Boss.” 

“What about Maero?” asks Carlos, fully invested in seeing this through. “Do you think he’s handsome, too?” 

“Maero?” Charlie’s eyes dart, quick as mice, as he tries to weigh up how much he ought to say and how honest he ought to be. “He’s… certainly a majestic beast,” he replies, haltingly and with a great deal of consideration. “He’s, uh. He’s something.” 

“Yeah, but do you think he’s handsome?” 

As Charlie’s expression hardens, Carlos calmly holds his gaze, knowing full well that he can do and say whatever he wants with impunity and see absolutely no consequences whatsoever, and Charlie, becoming increasingly aware that he’s created a monster by developing such a soft spot for the little bastard, sighs and relents, still frowning. 

“God. You little fucker. I don’t know,” he huffs. “Maybe? I mean I… he’s a good-lookin’ bloke, I suppose,” Charlie grudgingly admits. “And he  _ does _ clean up nice. Looks very good in a suit.” 

All three of them are fascinated now, and Charlie knows, looking at them, that they’re not going to drop the subject unless he makes them. And he  _ could _ make them, if he wanted to, but he likes them all too much to turn on them like that. 

So, as frustrating as this fucking interrogation he’s been roped into may be, Charlie is willing to stretch his patience for it. He’ll let them know if they go too far. 

“D’you think Pierce is handsome?” 

Of course Shaundi has to push her fucking luck, though. 

“Wh, what!?” Pierce, evidently, did not expect to be implicated in this matter, nearly falling out of the armchair he’s sitting in. “Me!?” 

Charlie can’t help but be tickled, but he does have to be the voice of reason and authority, at the end of the day. He does his best to sound serious. 

“Don’t fucking bully him, Shaundi.”

“I’m not! It’s a valid question, isn’t it?” 

Pierce peers at him, at once nervously hesitant and deeply, morbidly curious. 

“...  _ Do  _ you think I’m handsome?” 

“Ugh. Christ.” Charlie rubs his face. “Look,” he says, sternly, “I want to preface this by saying that I absolutely would not, under  _ any  _ circumstances, fuck Pierce.  _ Do not _ misunderstand what I am about to say. Is that clear?” 

There are affirmative nods all around, albeit some more excited than others. 

“Good. Now look,” Charlie goes on, “I  _ do  _ happen to think that Pierce is quite handsome, as a matter of fact. He has a nice figure and stately features, I think, and he takes care of himself. He dresses well and makes an effort. He’s a good-lookin’ chap.” 

“... Really?” 

“Yes, Pierce, really. Now Shaundi can  _ shut up  _ and stop embarrassing you, can’t she.” 

“Thanks, Boss.”

“Don’t mention it. Really.” 

“So if you wouldn’t fuck Pierce,” asks Shaundi, grinning at him from where she’s lounging on the far couch, propping herself up on her elbows and resting her chin on her hand, “Who  _ would _ you fuck?” 

“Don’t just fuckin’ come out and ask me somethin’ like that!” snaps Charlie, hoping to dissuade her before she marches herself any further over the line. “Fucks sake, woman!” 

“Okay, okay, fine.” She backs down easily. “But I mean, I’ve never seen you with a girl, Boss. I know you’ve been busy, but I figured I’d see you pick up a hooker at least once. Have you ever… Have you ever actually had a girlfriend? At all? Ever?” 

“No. And there are  _ reasons _ for that,” Charlie stresses, before Shaundi can say anything more, “Which are my business, thank you very much. However, to answer your  _ real _ question, because I know what you’re trying to  _ fucking _ ask me,  _ yes, _ I have fucked plenty of girls. Just none that I was, like, involved with. Romantically or otherwise. Alright?” 

“Have you ever, like… been with a guy, though?” Carlos cocks his head at him. “Nobody’s gonna care if you have, I mean, I don’t think anybody in here can afford to judge anyone for anything, right?”

“Yeah, that’s true enough, innit. Alright, yes,” says Charlie, “I have been with blokes before,  _ for money. _ Alright? Just for money. I’ve been with women for money, too.” 

“Wait, for real?” asks Pierce, staring. “You… you turned tricks?” 

“When I was younger,” replies Charlie, his tone dropping a little. “Yeah. It’s not all fuckin’... gold fronts ‘n’ spinnin’ rims, is it. Sometimes you’ve gotta just… get by, haven’t you.” 

“Holy shit, Boss.” Carlos, too, is watching him with wide eyes. “That’s fucked up.”

“Is it?” Charlie asks him. “How come it’s fucked up when I do it, but Shaundi can ask me why she’s never seen me pick up a hooker? Do you think hookers fuckin’ come out of thin air or something?” 

For a moment, Carlos looks as if he’s about to answer, but then his head dips, and he stays quiet. 

“Yeah,” says Charlie, levelly. “You have to think about that one, don’t you. Keep your fuckin’ mouth shut. I did it so you don’t have to.” 

“Okay, but…” Shaundi pauses, having the wisdom to tread more cautiously now that the conversation has turned serious. “... Does that mean those were the girls you fucked, or…?” 

“No, no. I mean, some were. But, I mean, y’know, that’s just what you do, isn’t it,” Charlie tells her, shrugging. “You go out of a night, you pick up some girls ‘n’ you fuck ‘em, don’t you. You don’t have to like ‘em or anythin’.” 

“That’s cold, Boss!” Pierce sounds thoroughly scandalised. “What the fuck!” 

“Yeah, you know, it is!” Charlie retorts. “And that’s why I don’t fuckin’ do it anymore! The only reason I did it back then is ‘cuz the older blokes in my gang did it, and I just did whatever they were doing, you know? I have a fuckin’ choice now, so I don’t bother anymore.” 

They’re all peering at him very owlishly now, perhaps for the revelation that their Boss was a youngster too, once, something that none of them have ever really considered before. Another heavy silence ensues, until Carlos, after eyeing Charlie pensively for a little while, finally speaks up and breaks it. 

“... Y’know, when you say it like that, it really sounds like you don’t like girls very much, Boss.” 

Charlie groans loudly, throwing his head back in frustration.

“Oh, for  _ fucks sake,  _ boy!” 

“What’s the little shitstain gettin’ mixed up in now?” 

Gat, walking in, has missed out on this conversation, but is already amused by it just for how fed up Charlie is with it. Charlie, though, wastes no time in seeing the opportunity his presence presents for escape. 

“Johnny, thank  _ god. _ Come on.” Without so much as another word, Charlie is standing up and ushering him back towards the door. “We’re goin’ to the beach.” 

“Yeah, okay.” He doesn’t protest. “I guess we are, then. I’ll see you fuckers later,” he tells the others, grinning. 

Shaundi, grinning back, calls after them. 

“Gat! He loves you!” 

“Yeah, I know!” 

Gat is still grinning when he and Charlie are in the car, on the way to the beach, and he glances away from the road for a moment to look at him.

“So, you wanna tell me what this is about?” 

“Oh, god.” Charlie cringes. “Fuckin’... They think I’m gay or somethin’.” 

“Oh? Oh yeah?” 

“Don’t laugh, you prick. They wouldn’t fuckin’ leave it alone! I mean, for fucks sake, I’m… I am  _ very obviously straight. _ But they wouldn’t fuckin’ have it.” 

“Hah!” Johnny scoffs. “You? Straight? Like fuck are you straight, that’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.” 


End file.
